


All Hail (Diavolo x Reader)

by sondepoch



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Cage Fights, Completed, Death, Exploring feelings, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Hope, Injury, Loss, Love, Mutual Pining, Pining, Princess reader, Rebellion, Resistance, Secret love, Tragedy, Violence, before diavolo is prince au, demon reader, kingdom - Freeform, slight AU, slight slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sondepoch/pseuds/sondepoch
Summary: The current ruling class is brutal. Draconian. Tyrannical. Every demon who has sat the throne for the past ninety thousand years has brought nothing but hardship to the Devildom—something Diavolo and his father intend to remedy by seizing power as leaders of the Resistance.When Diavolo happens to come across the princess of the Devildom, he’s overjoyed. He sees you as an opportunity, a sign from a higher power that his cause is just; and he plans to use you as a pawn in his Rebellion.But life rarely goes as planned, especially in Hell.And when Diavolo realizes that he’s falling in love with you, things suddenly feel a lot more complicated than they used to be.
Relationships: Diavolo (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Diavolo/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 196





	1. 150 Days Before Rebellion

Diavolo has never been so _humiliated_.

He knew that he was in for something special the moment he learned that he was to face the season's defending Victor—a powerful demon who has held the championship title for the past two hundred years—but he never expected his opponent to be so _cruel._

Diavolo staggers back, vision blurred, but he can hardly even raise his hands to cover his face before another rush of pain swells through his body, a sickening _crack_ echoing through the cage as his opponent's foot collides with his side.

A garbled scream escapes from his mouth, but then the demon has kicked his _other_ side as well, and Diavolo can only choke on his own breath as he drops to his knees, too blinded by pain to fight anymore. He raises a hand, four fingers extended, to gesture surrender: to end this cage fight and withdraw from the ring. But before he can even lift his arm, his opponent has swung their leg over his shoulder, and then Diavolo's entire upper body is pressed to the ground where the demon forces him to remain, stomping on his back repeatedly.

Diavolo curses inwardly.

He's only seen the Victor fight a handful of times, but never has he observed the demon fight in such an _unhinged_ style. If anything, the Victor is a relatively kind demon, given that he usually allows his opponents to surrender when they've had too much.

_Kind, huh?_

A trickle of blood, warm and wet, runs down Diavolo's body, but he can't tell from where. With his arm crushed and his body pressed to the ground, he can no longer surrender. His only hope is that someone will _notice_ how he's no longer fighting back, no longer even bothering to defend himself as his opponent raises a leg and stomps on his face, effectively knocking Diavolo loose from his already weak grip on consciousness.

He can only curse as the crowd continues to cheer, his hazy vision slowly fading to black. He passes out to the sound of someone shouting—though by now he can barely tell what their words are—and then he's truly gone, vaguely wondering if he'll ever wake up.

* * *

You're feeling a _lot_ of things right now.

On one hand, you want to vomit on the ground, expelling from your body everything you've eaten alongside the horridly _graphic_ memory of the Victor fighting so savagely, something you've never seen in all your years watching these cage fights.

On the other hand, there's an overwhelming rage that possesses you, and you can't help but want to chase after the Victor who's now exiting the ring, looking all too smug for someone who nearly beat a lesser demon to death out of _pettiness_ from you rejecting him.

But then—and this is perhaps the most compelling feeling—you have the urge to run to the center of the ring where the demon who lost the fight still remains passed out on the ground, lying face down in a puddle of blood that only grows larger with each passing second.

And while you _absolutely_ want to get back at the Victor for taking such vile actions, it is this third desire that you give in to, and you force your gaze away from the proud demon's retreating figure in favor of raising your dress to run down and enter the ring.

"Sir?" You question softly, kneeling in the demon's blood. Your hand hovers in the air, just above the dark red tufts of hair that peek out from his mask. You hesitate, not knowing what to do, not knowing whether you'll hurt him if you touch him.

"Sir, please wake up."

No response.

You purse your lips, a frown forming on your face as you briefly raise your eyes to study the elevated benches surrounding the ring. Only a few demons linger, now that the fight is over, and all their bodies are turned away from you and the unconscious demon at your feet. Still, you can only be _partially_ certain that their stares aren't directed your way, with everyone's masks hiding their true expressions. You mutter a curse under your breath, swiftly understanding that it's not safe to use your magic here with so many potential witnesses.

"Sir," You repeat more firmly, now pressing a hand to the back of the demon's neck. You can feel his pulse, strong and powerful under your touch. But this man's wounds are equally impressive, and you're certain that he'll be significantly weaker if you don't help him _now._

You groan, raising your hand to deliver a firm _smack_ to the back of the man's neck, watching carefully as he immediately flinches in response.

A smile forms on your lips.

The gesture of hitting him was nothing but a distraction, the sound and action meant to hide the quiet snap of magic you released into his skin upon making contact. And it would seem that your plan has worked. Not a single soul in the room spares you or the demon a second glance, even as he shifts and mumbles something incoherent.

You withdraw your hand.

"Sir," You murmur, keeping your voice low and even to avoid causing him any additional pain. "I'm going to need you to get up."

The demon lets out an agonized groan. It's entirely understandable, given the significance of his injuries and the fact that the magic you released was only enough to wake him, hardly suitable for _healing_ his wounds. You lower your voice even further.

"Please," You murmur, placing a delicate hand on his back, where the shirt has been torn from his skin. "I can help you."

"L...leave me," The man manages to say, the words slipping past his lips after much effort.

"And let the next cage fighters kick you out tomorrow morning?" You question incredulously, arching an eyebrow. "Sir, you are covered in sweat and blood. Your condition is salvageable _now_ , but the moment you pass out again, your body will attract all _sorts_ of creatures, and these wounds will be infected. So I repeat: _let me help you_. _"_

The demon says nothing to your words, only letting out another soft groan of pain, and you sigh, settling your hand more firmly against his back.

"I'm going to lift you, alright?"

"Go...go ahead and...try…" The demon concludes his sentence with a harsh cough, spitting more blood onto the floor, and you sigh to yourself. You're used to people underestimating your strength after seeing your small stature, but this man is lying face down in his own blood. He hasn't even _seen_ you, and he's already scoffing at your words.

A mild irritation burns in your stomach as you bend your knees and tense your grip around the demon's abdomen, turning him over. It takes two attempts to roll him onto your back, where you loosely grip him as you latch his arms around your shoulders. It's another two tries before you manage to lift yourself to your feet, where you stagger for a moment under his weight.

The sound of light laughter erupts from the stands, and you know that they're mocking your feeble attempt at transporting this wounded man who is nearly triple your size, but you ignore them, simply telling the demon to "hold on" as you slowly move out of the ring, muscled legs wobbling only once every third or fourth step.

"You're...strong…" The demon whispers before coughing, his blood now coloring your green robes a darker shade, and he mumbles something which sounds like an apology.

"Shh," You whisper, trying to regain your balance as you exit the arena altogether, glancing left and right to figure out a suitable place to take this demon.

"Do you have a home?" You ask, stumbling lightly when the demon shifts on your back. Only when you feel the serene pace of his breathing, even and steady, do you realize that he's passed out once more.

"Sir?" You repeat, hoping that he might awaken to the sound of your voice. But he continues to remain silent, and you curse inwardly. Your earlier trick won't work here, now that there are so many people out on the street to _feel_ your magic.

You'll have to find somewhere to take this demon on your own.

_Damn it._

Somewhere in the distance, a bell rings four times.

_Double damn it._

If it's already four in the morning, then you'll need to somehow sneak back inside your home within two hours—and the journey back takes at least one and a half. If you're going to take this demon anywhere, it'll need to be _close_ to your residence, a risk almost too great, should the morning patrol discover him.

"Sir?" You mumble again, somewhat desperately this time. But the man only continues to doze, his blood-covered head hanging down off your shoulders, and you realize that you either have to abandon him here and leave him to die, or bring him to the one place forbidden to outsiders—forbidden to people like _him_.

And when you glance briefly at the man who's hanging over your back with such _trust_ , already asleep and unconscious as you carry him, you know that you won't be able to abandon him.

So there's only one place left to go.

* * *

Diavolo has never been more confused than when he wakes up in a foreign room, surrounded by unfamiliar stone walls and a plethora of strange-looking plants. His mask appears to still be on, partially stuck to his face now that his blood has dried, but the rest of his body is clean. His fingers seem to be covered in healing herbs and bandages, as if someone has been tending to him—but the most confounding thing by far is the attire he's dressed in: rich, purple robes of spider silk.

The demon blinks.

He moves to rise from the bed he's lying in, raising a single arm to push himself upward—but the rush of pain that overpowers his body at the movement sends all his prior memories back to him, from when he fought the Victor to collapsing on the cold arena floor.

 _At least I didn't die_ , the demon muses wryly as he eases his hand back onto the bed, sighing softly once his body relaxes. But then another thought weighs on his mind, and this one seems even more pressing: Who brought him here? Who changed his clothes? Who dressed his wounds and kept him from death's door?

Diavolo's eyebrows furrow as he tries to find an answer, but no matter what he does, his memory refuses to venture past the point of him passing out. All he can do is _wait_ for his supposed savior to return to him in hopes that he might be able to thank them for their work.

 _Perhaps it was Father_ , he thinks. And wouldn't _that_ be something interesting? To see the leader of the Resistance forsake his duties, all to fetch his son from an underground cage fight? But then Diavolo remembers that he seems to be dressed in silk—the _expensive_ kind—and he realizes that whoever brought him here must be a high-ranking noble, something that his father, despite all his wealth, simply is not.

"Then who…?" Diavolo wonders aloud, but then he's seized by a coughing fit, and all he can think of is the _pain_ that tears through his body every time he flinches, his wounds healing but far from healed.

By the time his body has recovered, Diavolo's muscles are twitching with the memory of the prior pain, and he can't suppress the drawn-out groan that slips from his lips—evidently regretting that he ever thought he might stand a chance against the _Victor,_ of all demons—and the sound seems to cause a commotion from the other side of the room.

The demon flinches, eyes darting straight to the door on his left which, sure enough, bursts open within seconds.

But the figure that walks through shakes Diavolo to the core.

 _How?!_ He wonders, eyes wide as the masked figure draws nearer, saying something to him that he can barely comprehend through the utter _shock_ traveling through his mind.

_(E/c) eyes._

_(H/c) hair._

_(S/c) skin._

There's no doubt about it. Although you're wearing a mask to cover your face, Diavolo is absolutely positive that it's _you_.

No one else would be able to realize it. The mask you wear is typical of cage watcher, and it covers every inch of your skin on your face. But after decades of studying, decades of training, decades of preparing to overthrow the current rulers of the Devildom, a single glance at you is all it takes for Diavolo to realize that you're not only one of _them_ , but you're their _future._ The person Diavolo has spent months building a profile on. The person his father has spent years trying to kidnap. _You._ The princess of the Devildom. And the single most important person to the Resistance.

Diavolo's mind is suddenly going wild, wondering if this is a hallucination conjured up by his mind because it seems so _unfathomable_ that you would just _walk_ into his life. But then Diavolo can _feel_ your touch on his arm as you continue speaking and dressing his wounds, and he realizes that this is reality—that the princess of the Devildom is _actually_ standing next to him.

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Sir?"

Diavolo blinks when he withdraws himself from his mind, forcing himself to acknowledge and answer your questions.

"I—" Diavolo begins, the sound hoarse as it leaves his throat. "I can. Hear you, I mean. I can hear you."

Diavolo watches you cautiously as you continue dressing his wound, exchanging the herbs you'd wrapped around his arm while talking on about something, and the demon flexes his muscles, testing to see whether he has enough strength to kidnap you. To attack you. Maybe even to kill you.

"Oh, thank goodness! I was worried that the Victor had assaulted you so badly that he damaged your eardrums."

"I see," He murmurs, keeping his words short as you continue to express how _relieved_ you are that he's woken up. Of course, Diavolo doesn't believe a word of what you say. He knows all too well that the current ruling class is filled with liars and oppressors, that everyone in the palace is nothing but a cruel tyrant—and that even if you _did_ bring him here after he passed out at the cage fight, it must only have been because of some higher, sinister plan.

"You've been out for nearly a week now. I couldn't get you to wake up, so I brought you here, but if you give me the address of your family, I can return you to them by nightfall. And I'll leave you with all the proper medicinal treatments you might require to heal, of course."

 _Give her my address?_ Diavolo thinks inwardly, scoffing. _This princess must take me for a fool._

"I have no family," Diavolo lies smoothly, watching as you move from his arm to his leg, beginning to lift the plants crusted with blood off his body. "I come from the lower districts. We don't have any concept of formal addresses, there."

"Oh," You murmur with a frown, raising your gaze from his foot to his face, looking at him with sympathy. "Um, I've brought you to the Temple of the Grim Reaper, so no one should disturb you for as long as you're here, but—"

"You brought me to the _Temple of the Grim Reaper?"_ Diavolo asks incredulously, and suddenly he's less preoccupied with the fact that he's lying down in front of the princess of the Devildom, and all that matters is that he's lying and _bleeding_ on one of the most sacred grounds in all of Hell.

"I know it's forbidden!" You squeak, raising your hands in defense. "But I couldn't bring you anywhere else, and this is the only place where no one would find you, so...so...so…"

A sound of disbelief escapes Diavolo's lips as he tries to process the rush of information laid out before him. Not only does he have the _princess_ of the Devildom standing next to him, but she's also brought him to the holy temple that is rumored to lead straight into the palace.

 _Father will be pleased_ , Diavolo thinks, quietly laughing to himself as you turn your body away. He forces himself to sit up, fighting his body through the pain of moving it, and raises his hands, extending them toward your neck while you continue to face away from him, completely vulnerable and all too _trusting_ as the demon prepares to choke you, arms reaching out to trap your neck in a hold that none have escaped from.

But then, right as his hands are about to clasp and strangle your neck, a memory returns to him.

_"You're...strong…" Diavolo whispered before coughing, his blood coloring your green robes a darker shade._

His eyes widen as he recalls _how_ he was brought here: how you not only _lifted_ him, but you were able to _carry_ him all this way.

Diavolo lowers his hands, frowning.

_I called her strong._

The demon is no fool—if he, in that half-dazed state, thought you were strong, then he knows he will need the full scope of his strength if he wants to bring you back home, back to the Resistance.

In other words: Diavolo will need to wait before he tries to kidnap you.

"Sir!" You exclaim in horror the moment you turn around, shocked to find him sitting up. "Sir, it is imperative that you _rest_ ," You admonish him, clicking your tongue as you push his shoulders back down against the makeshift bed.

"Fine," Diavolo mutters in a low voice, cautiously leaning back as you continue to work.

 _Just until I've regained my strength_ , he promises himself. _Then I'll return to Father and bring her with me, and the Revolution will truly begin._

But as he watches you continue to work, cautious fingers going _agonizingly_ slow to avoid hurting him while you continue to change the dressings on Diavolo's wounds, more questions run through his mind.

Like…"Why are you helping me?"

You blink at the question, nearly jumping at the intensity of Diavolo's voice. But after a moment of silence, you pause in applying medicine onto his legs, and humor him with a response.

"It may have been my fault that the Victor attacked you so savagely," You confess, and although Diavolo can't see underneath your mask, the expression in your eyes is sheepish.

"Your fault?" He asks. "How?"

You sigh, beginning to work on Diavolo's legs again as you explain.

"The Victor had asked that I join him in bed, the hour before the two of you fought. And when I denied him, I was rather rude about it. More than was necessary." There's a pause, one filled with regret borne of hindsight. "And it seems that he took his anger out upon you. You never would have been so cruelly dealt with if I had been a little more tactful."

Diavolo remains quiet at that.

On one hand, he wants to make a snarky comment about how it _is_ your fault that he was attacked so brutally. His inherent hatred for the current ruling class—for _you_ —makes it so that he wants to criticize you for being unable to handle the Victor's insult with more class.

But on the other hand, Diavolo can't deny that the kindness you showed in taking responsibility for your actions, in bringing him to this sacred temple and treating his wounds, is something he'd expect of a Resistance member. Something Diavolo would expect of _himself_ , rather than a princess among the most tyrannical rulers the Devildom has ever seen.

And so, in the face of this odd dilemma, Diavolo opts to remain silent, in hopes that the more you speak, the more of your true colors you might reveal—in hopes that you'll say something to prove his hatred true, to prove that everyone who lives in the palace is born of evil and corruption mated.

But you take his silence for anger.

"I—I'm sorry for the trouble," You stutter out, fingers beginning to tremble as you fumble with the herbs in your hand. "Y-you do not deserve this, I know that. I—I regret that I could not have helped you earlier. T-truly, It was never my intention to cause a third party any pain, and—and—"

"Enough," Diavolo mumbles, raising a hand to silence you. "Your apologies are not needed."

He frowns inwardly, a part of him wondering why he bothered to quiet you in your dilemma when it would have been so easy to let you ramble. To let you torture yourself for explanations. To gaslight you, and let you believe that this situation is entirely _your_ fault rather than Diavolo's own inability to fight back against the Victor.

He huffs angrily, letting you continue to dress his wounds, even going as far as to allow you to strip off the purple robes covering his body to work on his chest, where his wounds are significantly worse.

 _Just for now_ , the man tells himself, clenching his jaw. _As soon as she heals me and I have no more use for her, I will bring her to the Resistance._

Diavolo closes his eyes, hissing sharply as your fingers brush over his wounds.

_But for now, I will let her do as she pleases._

Diavolo opens a single eyelid, studying your movements as you continue to work your deft yet gentle fingers.

_Just for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 3.6k
> 
> Notes: Ok so this was supposed to be a oneshot but I realized that if I made it a oneshot itd be like 20k words and hella rushed so we have a new series~ :D I'll be updating twice per week on Saturdays and Wednesdays ^^ I'm currently planning for 8 chapters in total but that number might change by one or two. Heads up - there'll be angst. And fluff. But watch out for the angst ;) Also, future chapters will probably be longer
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Next Update: 8/19/20
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	2. 130 Days Before Rebellion

The healing process is slow, to say the least.

You study the man's leg, squinting at the scabs that have begun to form around the edges of his wounds, but the flesh has only _just_ started to return around the bone. Even with the superior healing of demons, this man will need nearly a full month before he's back to normal—a testament to how severely he was injured.

You sigh, walking around the makeshift bed to study the demon's arm.

His wounds are a little better here, given that you spent the first few days practically slathering the area in medicinal salve straight from the palace, but now that you've had to ration your treatment, the herbs you've collected are only doing so much to keep the man's pain away.

A huff of exasperation leaves your lips.

This would be _so_ much easier if the demon would simply fall into unconsciousness once more.

The first time you'd brought him here, he had been dead to the world. He hadn't woken up even when you let an undead chipmunk run across his face. It had been simple to cast your spells then, while there was no threat of him waking up to see you in the middle of an enchantment.

But now?

Even when the demon _sleeps_ , he seems to be on edge—as if he's somehow scared of you without even knowing your identity.

A light frown forms on your lips as you push your mask up, a habit you've developed over these past few weeks. You know, rationally, that the clay covering bears no chance of slipping or falling off, but you still need the reminder that the mask is there. That your identity is protected. That despite you helping him, this man does not know who you are and has no reason to suspect you.

"Sir?" You question softly, approaching him on the other side.

His eyes are closed—you can see that much through the thin slits on his mask—but you can never be sure.

You wrap your fingers deftly around his bicep (the only place on his body where he isn't injured) testing to see whether the man is truly asleep. Whether you might be able to speed his recovery along with a little magic.

His eyes dart open instantly.

You flinch at the amber scorn he instinctively regards you with, almost feeling _scared_ of his glare, but it hardly lasts a second before the demon has hidden the expression away, masking it with a more neutral tone.

But even as he continues to regard you with an apathetic curiosity, the look in his eyes remains in your mind.

You know that look.

That's the look you get from the public when you tail behind your family, when the royal escorts bring you to lower districts and you try to smile at the commoners, only to be met with expressions of scorn and distrust.

_An all too familiar look._

You have to reassure yourself that you must have misread the demon's eyes.

You know for a fact that he does not know your identity. He _cannot_ know your identity. The green cloak you wear was purchased from a flea market, hardly constructed of royal silk to indicate anything of your high birth. And your mask does an equally brilliant job of hiding your face, your whole outfit so _plain_ that even the guards pay you no attention when you pass by. The only people who pose a true threat to learning your secret are your parents, and they're rarely caught outside the palace.

The only _possible_ way this demon might have an inkling of who you are is if he happens to be of a pure bloodline, one of the demons descended from the first rulers, able to sense and practice magic like you. But, again, most of the remaining descendants in Hell don't even _know_ that they're descendants, and they've had little opportunity to learn magic the way you have, much less grow familiar with it to the point where they might sense that it's been used on them.

_Right_ , you reason with yourself, taking a steadying breath. _There's no way this demon knows who I am._

You shake your fears to the back of your mind.

"How are you feeling?" You ask tentatively, beginning to unwrap some of the herbs lain along the demon's cuts. "Sir?"

"Fine," He grunts. "When you were gone yesterday, I was able to sit up."

"Oh?" You replace the herbs with fresh ones, bundles of green and orange and yellow that you freshly picked on your way here. "That's certainly an improvement. Have you tried to move your legs yet, or is the muscle still too weak?"

"The muscle is..." The demon trails off, and you're certain that if you could see underneath his mask, he would be scowling right now. "Weak," He mutters, as if he hates the word.

"Hey," You draw his attention, squeezing lightly on a patch of uninjured skin. You wait until the demon makes eye contact with you. "The Victor did a lot of damage to you. There's nothing wrong with needing time to heal."

The demon makes a dismissive grunt.

You sigh.

That whole exchange is a pretty accurate depiction of what your relationship is like with this demon. You push a lot, he gives a little, you push some more, and then he ends the conversation. And while this progress (if you can even call it that) is _incredibly_ slow going, so tortuously lagging that you don't even know the demon's name yet, it's _something_.

And that's all you need.

"Do you know what they say?" You continue, rambling on despite knowing that the demon doesn't particularly care. "Sometimes, when you get injured, your body is even stronger when it heals back!"

"I'm sure," The man says drily, sarcasm laced so thickly into his voice that there's no doubt he doesn't believe your words.

"It's true!" You protest, pausing in wrapping his forearm in gauze to show him your wrist. "Look, can't you see the scar? I injured my wrist there a few centuries ago. And I thought it would trouble me for the rest of my life, but it healed wonderfully under the same herbs and treatments I'm giving you. And now, my right wrist is _miles_ stronger than my left, even though my left is the one that's never been injured."

"Right," The demon mutters, his tone utterly disbelieving even as you huff and go back to wrapping his arm.

_So much for that_ , you think, internally sighing at another failed attempt to make conversation, redirecting your attention back to the demon's arm.

_Even without any more magic, it should be completely healed within twenty days,_ you muse, cutting off the gauze and tucking it in, stepping back and smiling briefly at your work.

_Perfect._

You move up to the demon's chest, quietly slipping open his robe and swiping a damp handkerchief along the patches of skin where blood has collected, deciding to let the herbs from yesterday sit for another day before you replace them. It takes hardly any time for you to exchange the soft bandages on the man's neck with new ones, and then you've finished work on his upper body completely, and you're ready to redirect your attention back to his legs.

_Except..._

You glance upward at the demon's mask, your eyes narrowing when you see the crusted blood underneath the wooden frame. It's _painfully_ unhygienic. You've entirely avoided the demon's face and head ever since you brought him here, mostly out of fear for what his sharp tongue might say should you try, but he seems to be in a better mood today.

Surely it can't hurt to voice your concerns, right?

"Sir?" You murmur, withdrawing your hand.

"What?" The demon snaps, evidently not used to you trying to start a conversation up again so _soon_ after him ending one.

"Would you mind if..." You trail off, voice hesitant.

_No,_ you decide _,_ flattening your palms. Yes, it is your responsibility to care for this demon, after he was injured so heavily as a direct cause of your actions. But as his caretaker, it is _not_ your obligation to tiptoe around what you need to do.

And each day you put this off, the worse things get.

"I need to take your mask off," You declare, voice authoritative. "The Victor injured your head as well during the fight, and I need to know how bad the damage is. And I'm sure you can _feel_ the sheer amount of blood that is stuck to your face right now."

The demon quiets, his eyes narrowing at you. And normally, you would look away out of respect for the fact that he has every right to resent you for getting him into this situation in the first place—but this time, you level your gaze and return his stare with equal force.

You're not going to budge on this, and he needs to know it.

"Fine," He mutters after what feels like a full minute of just staring at each other. "Do what you need to do. And do it quickly."

A light grin forms on your lips at that, and you quickly move your hands to both sides of his wooden mask, tugging on it.

But the mask doesn't budge.

"Oh," You mutter softly, feeling a twinge of sympathy. "The mask appears to be stuck to your face, Sir."

"Then work on my legs."

"No, that's not what I meant." You sit down on the edge of the stone table the demon is lying down on, gripping his mask more tightly. "I can still take it off. But it is going to reopen your wounds. And it will hurt, Sir. A _lot."_

"Then make it _quick,"_ He hisses, his tone so vicious that you almost feel the beginnings of irritation prick at your side, a quiet frustration rising at this demon's blatant ungratefulness. But you push the feeling aside, opting instead to focus on sympathy for this man because you already know how much this is going to hurt.

"Feel free to scream," You whisper.

And you begin to pull.

* * *

To his merit, not a sound leaves Diavolo's lips when you pry the mask off of his face, an explosion of blood bursting forth as the wounds that had crusted over and hardened into the mask are _ripped_ from his face.

Unfortunately, the demon blacks out barely seconds afterward, so his efforts to appear strong and collected mostly go to waste.

When Diavolo comes to, the pain on his face is less acute. It's a dull ache, and the demon can _feel_ the blood as it continues to seep out of the open injuries on his face, but the discomfort is almost entirely replaced with an odd, tingling sensation, one that is all too familiar.

_Magic._

Forbidden to all but the royal family, entirely unfamiliar to commoners, and only a vague word to those like Diavolo, who have it in their blood to master the craft but have never had the opportunity.

The demon might chuckle if he weren't scared to move his face.

It's almost like you're _trying_ to reveal your true identity.

"Can you see properly?" He hears you ask as you continue to dab at the unending flow of blood trickling off his face. "Did the Victor do any damage to your eyes?"

"I'm fine," Diavolo mumbles, holding his face as still as possible. And the words are true. After nearly three weeks of lying down on this bed while waiting for his injuries to heal, this is the first time he has been able to look up without his vision impaired by the sight of his mask obstructing it. The world feels brighter this way. Shrouded in darkness as the Devildom eternally is, but brighter all the same.

"Does this hurt?"

You apply pressure on a certain point.

Surprisingly, it doesn't bring Diavolo any pain.

"No."

You lean back, dipping your white handkerchief (turned red with Diavolo's blood) into a makeshift bowl, squeezing it in the water until it returns a paler shade.

"I can't tell where the bleeding is coming from, Sir," You say, almost apologetic. "I'll need to press different points on your face and you'll simply have to tell me when it hurts. Is that alright?"

Diavolo grunts in response.

"Actually...it must hurt for you to speak, no?"

The demon feels your eyes turn sympathetic as you gaze down at him, a gaze so soft and _pitiful_ that it irks him.

"I'm _fine,"_ He insists, raising his voice the slightest to emphasize his point.

But the jolt of pain that runs down his back the moment opens his mouth a little too wide, the already-injured skin stretching beyond what is comfortable, isn't missed by your observant eyes.

You nod your head quietly, mumbling a brief "Of course," before you move your hand into Diavolo's own, calmly pressing his fingers around your wrist. "But I realized that if you move your face, it'll make things difficult for _me_ , even if it doesn't hurt. So squeeze my wrist whenever you feel me touch a spot that doesn't feel like normal, healed skin, alright?"

And as much as Diavolo wants to fight you, as much as he wants to hold his ground and resist, as much as he wants to live up to the expectations of a proper Resistance member and insist that he's fine and you don't need to pity him like this, a meek squeeze of your wrist is all he does in quiet acquiescence.

His father would not be proud.

But for a short moment, Diavolo listens to your urges to close his eyes as you begin dabbing your handkerchief along his face again, squeezing your wrist compliantly every time you brush against skin that is too sensitive to be unharmed.

It's almost peaceful—he thinks—letting you take care of him like this.

Almost.

* * *

"I'm waiting for an opportunity to kidnap her," Diavolo explains, crossing his arms. "Give me some time, Father. It shouldn't be long. She's just begun to let her guard down around me," He lies, pretending as if you haven't treated him with your defenses lowered from the very day you met. "I will bring her to you soon."

**_Good, son._ **

Diavolo flinches, as usual, the moment his father's voice rings out in his ears. The man mastered the magic of minds long before Diavolo was born, supposedly learning the craft before the current rulers came into power and banned its usage—but Diavolo has never had the same opportunity, and the sensation of another's voice ringing out in his mind is wholly uncomfortable.

**_Your wounds. How are they?_ **

"I've healed," Diavolo answers, experimentally flexing his fingers. "My face may require some more time, but the princess has been using magic to advance the process."

**_She uses her magic on you? Is she a fool?_ **

"It would appear so. She has no suspicions of my true identity, nor the fact that I know hers."

**_Good._** **_And Diavolo?_**

"Yes, Father?"

**_Barbatos told me of your pitiful performance at the cage fighting rink. If you bring me the princess, I will not punish you for disobeying my orders to stay back, nor will I punish you for your disgraceful defeat. However, should you fail me again, do not expect me to be merciful._ **

"...I won't, Father," The demon mumbles, the beginnings of shame pricking at his heart. "I promise, I'll bring her to you as soon as I am at full strength."

**_Don't._ **

"What?" Diavolo's voice is sharp, almost seeming the puncture the nighttime silence as he looks up. When he speaks again, he sounds like a boy once more, indignant in his demand for knowledge. Like a petulant child, offended and hurt. "Have you already given my task to someone else? Father, I may have lost a single cage fight, but I assure you that I am beyond capable of—"

**_Calm yourself, my son._ ** **_I have not given your task to any other. All I need is for you to wait until the time is right to bring the princess back to the Resistance._ **

"You are...asking me to wait?" Diavolo questions. "How long, Father?"

**_I do not know. I will tell you when the time is right. But be ready, my son. Rebellion draws near._ **

Diavolo is about to respond, about to ask another question about how long he is expected to stay by your side, to pretend to be some poor, ignorant fool who needs aid, before hears your footsteps approach.

His father must sense his instinctive panic, because the soft hum of sorcery which they had been using to contact each other disappears instantly.

Diavolo curses inwardly. He'll have to wait again until his father contacts him.

Of course, he's not upset that the man left. Diavolo knows that it's too risky to leave the connection open, to risk you detecting the hum of magic radiating off his body. It's borrowed magic, sent down from his father, but it's _magic_ all the same—and Diavolo knows by now that you're too skilled in witchcraft to miss it.

The demon steps back, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible while you shuffle your way into the temple, looking around curiously.

"Sir?" You call, blinking in surprise. Instinctively, your eyes go to the stone table in the center of the room where he usually lays, sleeping his days away while waiting for his body to heal, but he's not there.

You glance around the room in confusion, eyes flitting from the ornate benches to the intricate stone tablets littered around the room, searching in every corner for the familiar man who seems to be in an unfamiliar place.

"Here," Diavolo calls down, deciding to humor you.

You jump at the sound.

_"Sir!"_ You yelp, but your tone is strict, admonishing as you cross your arms and look up. "I know I told you that your wounds have healed enough for you to begin moving around, but I know for a _fact_ that I never implied you should be _climbing."_

Diavolo keeps his face straight at that, hiding his internal amusement as he glances around at the indoor balcony he's standing on. It's high up, overseeing the entire room—but it's clear that the only way to get up here is to either enter via the door behind him, which is locked like the rest of the rooms in this temple, or to literally _climb_ up.

It's clear that you know which option Diavolo chose.

"Relax," He sighs. "I am better healed than you think."

To emphasize his statement, he jumps off the balcony entirely, landing swiftly on his knees. He suppresses the urge to wince as his legs bend as they hit the unyielding ground, instead standing up to his full height, staring you down with confidence.

"Your wounds are going to..." You begin, but the protest dies on your lips the moment you look into Diavolo's eyes. The fiery ambers are lit bright with confidence, no signs of weakness present anywhere on his face.

"Fine," You mutter, glancing away. "But if you insist on walking about, I'd rather you do it outside."

Diavolo is slightly taken aback at that. His lips part briefly, and though he holds it back, he's certain that there's a flash of confusion on his face because seconds later, you're holding your hands up, sheepishly explaining.

"O-oh! It's just that, on my way here, I couldn't help but notice that there seems to be a beautiful cliffside where there are no guards standing post. And you know what they say, right? That fresh air is, um, the best medicine?"

Diavolo blinks.

You're an _awful_ liar. Awful is a compliment, really—there's not a single doubt in the demon's mind that you either bribed some guards to get them to leave this supposed 'beautiful cliffside' or you personally changed their posts, but the demon doesn't comment on it as you continue to dig yourself into a hole with words, now mumbling something about nighttime being safer than daytime, and eventually, Diavolo decides to put you out of your misery.

"Enough," He says, holding up a hand. "I'll come with you."

"Ah, really?" You exclaim, and though Diavolo can only see your eyes through the clay mask you wear, he can tell that your entire face is lit up with happiness. "That's wonderful, Sir!"

You grab his hand instantly, tugging him out of the temple where he's remained hidden inside for so long, pulling him into the fresh outside air. And, although Diavolo knows that you wholly butchered the adage when you claimed that fresh air is the best medicine, it really _does_ feel like the cool wind against his skin has a healing quality as it rushes through his silk robe, embracing his body whole in a crisp hug.

The demon is so preoccupied with enjoying his first moments outside the temple in so long that he doesn't even comment on the way you're still tugging him along, your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

And really, why _would_ Diavolo say anything?

These past few weeks, you've made yourself almost _unbearably_ comfortable around him. You've gone from asking and touching to simply touching in your efforts to wrap and heal his injuries, going as far as to slap his hand away every time he tries to stop you. A grip on his wrist is _nothing_ compared to the places you've touched him, especially given that your fingers often delved _beneath_ skin when you first treated his wounds.

"Isn't it lovely?" You call, leading Diavolo through a field. But _lovely_ is hardly the word the demon would use to describe this region—the grass so overgrown that it goes up above his waist, practically enveloping your figure whole, as the two of you walk through it.

He opts not to answer your question, deciding not to shoot your joy down with an arrow of sarcasm as he usually does, simply following.

But when you bring him to the edge of the field, now trying to pull him through a swamplike area, he pauses.

"Sir, what's wrong?" You call, tugging his wrist. "The ground is more stable than it looks, I assure you. If you'd like, I can carry you through it, though—"

"Enough."

Diavolo crosses his arms, glancing away.

"Excuse me?" You ask, but your tone isn't indignant. Instead, the words are soft as the breeze carries them to Diavolo's ears, unbearably _kind_ as your grip on his wrist weakens. "I'm sorry, Sir, I can—"

"No. Enough Sir _this,_ Sir _that._ Call me by my name."

"I don't know your—"

"Diavolo."

And Diavolo will never truly understand what possessed him in that moment, where he gave you his name.

But, oddly enough, he doesn't regret it when he sees the way your eyes light up.

The rational part of his brain will claim that it was a necessity. That, since his father has effectively ordered him to gain your trust and remain at your side indefinitely, giving him your name was _bound_ to happen, and he may as well have done it sooner rather than later because he was growing so sick of the word "Sir."

But the irrational part? The section of Diavolo's brain that is in tune with his emotions? In tune with his feelings?

That part knows he gave you his name because he _wanted_ to, and for no other reason.

"Diavolo, huh?" You whisper. "Named for the Devil himself. An honorable name."

_A common name_ , Diavolo wants to respond, as if he's justifying the statement to himself, as an excuse to why it was okay to give you his real name when he knows his father would mock him for such a thing.

But before the man can say a word, you've stepped closer to him, resting your hands on his shoulders in a motion that is far too _close_ for Diavolo's liking.

"Thank you for trusting me," You whisper.

And then Diavolo truly doesn't know what's _more_ astounding: the fact that you have the boldness to _hug_ him or the fact that you whisper your _real_ name into his ear as you do so, absentmindedly overloading the demon's mind with such shock that he only stands there dumbly as you hug him, neither reciprocating nor pulling away.

You're hardly fazed by it, though, and you're pulling him forward once more without a care in the world, but Diavolo's mind is racing a mile a minute.

He can hardly process the fact that you gave him your _real_ name.

The name everyone in the Devildom knows to be the name of their princess.

The name that no one else shares.

_Does she trust me that blindly or is she truly such a fool?_ Diavolo wonders as he follows you, entirely unsure of what to make of this development. You seem entirely nonchalant about it, though, nearly skipping as you tug the man closer to your destination.

"You are..." The man trails off, eyes softening as he watches your hair bounce with each step you take.

"Wonderful?" You ask, and Diavolo _knows_ that there must be a cheeky grin on your face under that mask. "Brilliant? Lovely?"

"Special." The man finishes, deciding on a word that can be used as an insult just as surely as it may appear to be a compliment.

"Are you trying to imply that I..." You begin, pausing to throw a disbelieving look Diavolo's way—but before you can finish your sentence, the two of you hear the familiar hoot of a Purgatorian Owl.

You glance back down the path you were traveling.

"We're here," You declare proudly, placing your hands on your hips in confidence.

"We...are?" Diavolo looks around in confusion.

Sure enough, there seems to be nothing but swamp: dreary vines, suspicious sounds, and the muddy ground that sinks every time Diavolo stands in one place for too long. It hardly sounds like the beautiful cliffside you promised.

"I don't think—"

"Come on!"

You begin sprinting ahead before Diavolo can even finish his sentence, lifting your green robe as you begin to escape the demon's line of sight, your laughter ringing out in the swamp as animals cry out when you pass them.

"Wait—" He tries to call after you, but you're already so far ahead of him that he has no choice but to grit his teeth and follow, internally cursing himself for ever going along with the whims of a princess.

Diavolo keeps his pace steady as he follows you from afar, somehow moving not half as gracefully as you appeared to as he darts through the swamp, and the man has to keep an arm in front of him to slash away any vines which only seem to trouble _him_ as he sprints along.

But, sure enough, after what feels like a solid four minutes of running, the vines begin to grow thinner. And the darkness begins to grow lighter. And then it's barely thirty seconds before Diaovlo hears your overjoyed laughter from just a hundred feet away, and the moment he bursts through the treeline which contains the swamp, he, too, begins to understand the reason for your joy.

A sound of disbelief escapes his lips.

You've brought him to another field. But this is entirely unlike the first one: here, the grass is wild but tamed, barely up to Diavolo's ankles as he wanders through it. Undead squirrels and zombie raccoons scurry by at a distance, looking at the demon's tall figure with curious eyes as he passes them. The sky is entirely unobstructed, clear clouds of black rolling against the indigo sky, and not a single building is to be seen no matter how Diavolo squints and looks around.

_Stunning_ , he thinks, trying to remember the last time he found a patch of land so untouched by civilization.

_Never,_ he realizes. _Never have I seen something peaceful._

Diavolo halts only when he finally catches up to you, pausing as the two of you stand right in front of the cliffside you were talking about: a sharp ledge that hovers over a steep drop, reaching so low that Diavolo can only make out the vague shape of darkness at the bottom.

Indeed, even _that_ seems more magnificent than anything he has ever seen.

"I have never..." Diavolo begins, stopping when he realizes how soft his voice sounds. "I have never seen anything like this," He confesses.

"Truly?" You ask, glancing up at him with wide eyes. "Never?"

He shakes his head.

"I..." The demon trails off, wondering if he should say this next thing. But then he realizes that he's already so deep in a lie that another one can't hurt—and so he quietly decides to deceive you once more.

Only this time, he lies for your sake, not his.

"I come from the poorer districts. We don't have anything like this there."

"Oh," You mumble. "That's...tragic. It's a shame that anyone might have to live their whole life without seeing something like this."

"Isn't it?" Diavolo laughs lightly. "Why, in the tavern I used to live in, we couldn't even afford a picture of the imperial family."

"Huh?" You ask, sounding somewhat dumb. "Isn't it against the law to have a home without a picture of the rulers?"

Diavolo's eyes narrow at that—quietly wondering if he misjudged your character, if you _are_ as evil and atrocious as he initially thought you were—but the look in your eyes is one of genuine curiosity, not accusation.

"Rules from a distant government are nothing in the face of extreme poverty."

True words. Though they hardly apply to Diavolo the way he's claiming.

"So, you've...never seen the royal family?"

"Never."

"Not even in passing? In paintings from other shops or such?"

"Not even once."

Diavolo sees the way you quiet at that, the way you begin contemplating the seed he placed in your mind with his lie. And while he won't complain if you choose to ignore it, opting to play it _safe_ , there's hardly a single doubt that you'll do what he expects you to.

After all, now that he's directly stated that he has no idea what your face looks like, why would you need to hide it anymore?

Diavolo turns his attention away from you, redirecting it down at the great chasm that opens up in front of him. It's glorious but empty—much like the mask you wear. Both are undeniable works of art, but Diavolo has stared at emotionless clay for far too long.

"Sir?" You call.

Diavolo gives you a look.

"I mean," You laugh sheepishly. "Diavolo?"

"What is it?"

"Why were you at the cage fight?"

"I could ask you the exact same question," He answers, glancing away. The demon folds his arms. "I know why you helped me, but such an uncouth fighting ground is hardly a place for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"You seem..."

Diavolo pauses, abruptly realizing that he's speaking without a filter. _A thousand curses_ , he thinks, realizing that he's dug himself into a hole.

But your piercing gaze, so bright with curiosity, urges him to give you the truth even though his mind is racing to come up with a lie.

"Kind," He finally admits, forcing the word past his lips with great reluctance. "And usually, savages are the only ones who enjoy watching cage fights."

"I..." You stop yourself, hesitant. Diavolo arches an unimpressed eyebrow.

A small part of him, a part that he would claim to be big but is in reality unbearably small, still hopes that your words will be cruel. That you'll confess that you _are_ a savage, and that it gives you a sick satisfaction to watch opponents beat each other bloody over and over again. He wants you to prove that you are just as awful as the king and queen who raised you, that he should have every right to loathe your existence the way he did so passionately before he met you.

But Diavolo already knows that your answer will be different.

"My parents..." You trail off, hesitating. You sigh, gesturing for Diavolo to sit down as you swing your legs over the cliffside, letting them dangle freely as you stare at your palms. After a moment of watching you, Diavolo does the same.

"My family would rather that I not see the world. They prefer to have me inside at all times. That is the reason why I can only stay with you for a few hours each day." You lean back, releasing a sigh that sounds far too boorish for what one would expect of a princess.

"The poverty districts are so far off that I could never visit them and make it back home in time. And the cage fights are the closest I can get to seeing the dark side of the Devildom, so I try my best to visit as much as possible. Even if it's difficult for me to see so much bloodshed."

"And why do you want to see this 'dark side of the Devildom' so badly?" Diavolo asks.

"Because..." Diavolo can hear you swallow. "My parents never saw it. And a lot of people hate them because of it. So I...I want to be better than them."

Diavolo stops.

His grip tightens around the grass where he has lain his hands, fingernails digging into the dirt.

_Lies_ , he thinks.

You must be lying to him. You have to. This must be nothing more than a sick manipulation tactic to get him to feel bad for you, to get him to regret his affiliation with the Resistance, to make him doubt the validity of Rebellion as it draws near.

_It has to be a lie_.

But Diavolo makes the mistake of glancing into your eyes—nothing more than a brief glance, one that hardly lasts a second—and even _he_ can't deny the overwhelming sincerity that you reflect so openly.

"And you?" He hears you ask, voice soft, gentle as you regard him. As if your question is something he doesn't need to answer, as if he needs you to treat him so delicately. "I told you why _I_ was at the cage fight, but what was your purpose in fighting there?"

"Because..."

_Because if I had won and become the new Victor, all the most powerful demons in the world would willingly bow to me, and I could bring them to the Resistance and Rebellion could begin. Because then, together, we could overthrow your family and put all your heads on stakes._

For the first time, Diavolo feels something unpleasant in the depths of his stomach as he thinks about that—and for a brief second, he almost feels _ashamed_ of his association with the Resistance.

"I needed the money," He blurts. "I wanted...a better life."

_Yes, a better life. At least that much is true._

"A better life, hm?" You mumble, fidgeting with the edge of your robe. "I don't know much about you, but you seem to be a very noble person, Diavolo. I...I admire that. A lot."

Your fingers reach upward, and for a moment, Diavolo thinks you're just fiddling with your robe before he realizes that your hands are ghosting over your mask, fingers gripping the pointed bottom and the bindings at the back which keep it pressed against your face.

"Would you...be okay with it if I showed you my face as well?"

_Of course I wouldn't mind_ , Diavolo thinks, momentarily dumbfounded by your request. But when he sees the way you actually pause, as if you're genuinely waiting for his response, he forces himself to say something.

"Yes," He whispers, trying to act nonchalant even as he sees you prepare to take down the final defense you had raised against him, naively opening yourself up _completely_ to this man who, by all rights, will one day end up being your greatest enemy.

But the moment your fingers pull on the bindings, the moment Diavolo sees the beginnings of your forehead peak through, and then your eyebrows, then your eyes, fully unobstructed by the mask, and then the rest of your face, all thoughts of his supposed hatred for you fly out the window.

Diavolo has to remind himself to breathe, he's so enraptured by your face as you pull your mask off completely, shaking your hair loose.

He's seen you in pictures before. Hell, he's _drawn_ your picture before. He's thrown darts at your image and burned newspaper clippings of your face and studied every inch of skin in the royal textbooks, searching for things to make fun of and things to hate.

But he's never truly _seen_ you, not in person. Not your _real_ face.

Diavolo's eyes refuse to blink, he's so utterly entranced by staring at you. He can't pull his gaze away even though he sees the way it makes you bashful as you avert your eyes, shyly raising them up again to peek at his face, his expression.

And all of a sudden, even the Resistance and Rebellion seem like far away topics as the man simply stops and takes in the picture before him: the stunning scenery, the gorgeous chasm, and your seemingly _perfect_ face which brings the whole view together.

Diavolo swallows, his mind only able to echo a single thought as he continues to stare at you.

You're _beautiful._

The most beautiful person Diavolo has ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 6.3k
> 
> Notes: hc that a name like "prince diavolo" in the devildom is like "prince/king henry" in the british empire. overused as hell, but it happens anyway :D also i still have no clue how long chapters are going to be in this series so keep checking the tags for the word count before you read ^^
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Next Update: 8/22/20
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	3. 100 Days Before Rebellion

Diavolo doesn't understand _how_ he got into this position, with you straddling his upper body and grinning down at him like the mischievous little devil you are, holding his body firm against the grass as your knees weigh down on his hands.

"Let me kiss you," You repeat, your eyes confident as they click with his.

A hand finds its way onto Diavolo's jaw, tracing the sharp angle of the flesh.

"I…" The demon trails off, his voice thick with tension. Thoughts flare in his mind: thoughts of Rebellion and the Resistance and everything which demands he push you off.

The demon closes his eyes.

He _really_ doesn't understand how he got into this position.

And honestly, how can he? Frozen under your earnest eyes, he feels like his mind is completely deserted of the memories that led up to this moment. The memories which hinted that this was an undeniable outcome. The memories which should have prepared him for this, but didn't.

Because twenty days ago, when you approached him, he really should have known better than to accept your proposition—because it could have only served as a catalyst for one thing, and it was the last thing Diavolo was prepared for.

* * *

[20 days ago, 100 days before Rebellion]

"No."

Diavolo crosses his arms and turns away from you, quietly stuffing another spinach puff into his mouth as he continues to disregard you completely.

"What?" You whine, jutting your lower lip out into a pout. He didn't even _consider_ your suggestion! "Diavolo, _please._ I'm a good teacher, I promise. If you let me train you, you're going to be strong enough to defeat _anyone_ , even the Victor!"

But the demon simply shakes his head, continuing to eat the food you brought him. "I don't want to learn the art of _combat_ from someone so weak," He mumbles through a mouthful of food, not even bothering to make eye contact with you as he reaches for a satchel of water.

You snatch the box of treats from his lap before he can react, narrowing your eyes sharply at him. "Someone so _weak?"_

"I didn't—" You watch as Diavolo sputters beneath your glare. "I didn't mean it like _that."_

"Tell me, then: How _did_ you mean it?"

"I..." The demon trails off, shifting awkwardly under your gaze. After a long silence, he sighs. "Listen, it's just that it wouldn't be fair. I'm practically triple your size. And—and _look,"_ He gestures, thrusting his arm out and motioning for you to do the same.

The moment you do, a scrape of annoyance fades from your face when you compare the size of your arm to Diavolo's (which, when placed directly next to yours, looks like something akin to a mammoth's leg next to a chipmunk's tail).

"I'd hurt you, and I don't want to do that," Diavolo concludes, popping another pastry into his mouth as if that settles it.

Immediately, a piece of your heart melts. And you groan inwardly.

Why does this demon have to be so sweet all the time?

You try to suppress the way a warmth instinctively creeps onto your cheeks at the words, instead choosing to focus on the red of his hair to bring your attention back down to earth.

Only, the longer you stare at the crimson tresses, the more you want to run your hands through them. And now that the strands aren't matted with blood, they look _so_ soft and touchable and fluffy and…

Diavolo calls your name.

"Huh?" You blurt, dropping your gaze back down to his eyes. It takes a conscious effort not to study the outline of his face once more, something which you realize, now that the scars have faded, is _equally_ handsome.

"I was asking you what you wanted to do this afternoon, since the weather is good enough to go outside the temple."

"Oh. Right. Train. I want to train you, Diavolo."

The demon groans, exasperated. But before he can say another word about how seemingly weak you are, you halt him with a hand.

"And you _won't_ hurt me. You won't be able to. I'm positive of it."

But Diavolo crosses his arms, stubborn as ever.

It's obvious that he's not going to budge unless you sweeten the deal a little.

"Okay," You mumble, sitting down next to him. "We'll have a match to determine if you'll let me train you or not—"

"—I'm _not_ going to _—_ "

"—and if you can hit me even _once_ , then you don't have to let me train you. But if you can't, then you have to let me teach you combat."

You watch as Diavolo considers your words, internally calculating the weight of your statement, but in the end, he shakes his head.

"No."

And now it's time for your trump card.

"If you can hit me, I'll bring you hemlock stuffed olives."

You grin as Diavolo's eyes immediately light up at the prospect of eating his favorite snack of all time (something which you learned shortly into his stay, as it was the only thing which would prompt him to hold a conversation with you that lasted longer than a minute).

It takes the demon a moment more to convince himself, but you're celebrating even before the word "fine" rolls off his lips, jumping out of your seat to extend a hand, already prepared to lead Diavolo back to the field where you want to fight him.

"Wha—I'm still _eating!"_ The demon grabs a handful of spinach rolls when you tug on his wrist and begin pulling him forward, paying him absolutely no heed as he continues to complain.

Your face lights up with a grin brighter than the moon.

You're going to train him.

It doesn't matter that the two of you haven't formally had your little match yet; you already _know_ you'll win. After all, this demon is nothing more than an impoverished soul from one of the lesser districts. Noble as his spirit may be, his strength is unmatched when compared to yours. Not that it's his fault, of course. He doesn't know it, but you're literal _royalty_ , and you've received training in all the physical arts from world-class masters.

He doesn't stand a chance.

"Why do you even want to train me, anyway?" Diavolo mutters under his breath, huffing as the two of you make the familiar trek to the cliffside.

You have to pretend not to hear his words.

You know that he'll look at you strangely if you tell him the truth. If you tell him that you're afraid of how lonely you know you'll feel if you have to say goodbye to him now that he's healed. If you tell him that you've enjoyed being able to have your first real friend of a lifetime, and that you selfishly want him to stay a little longer. If you tell him that training is just an excuse, and you really just want to spend more time with him.

So you push those thoughts to the back of your mind, flashing the demon a cryptic smile in place of an answer, desperately hoping that he won't figure you out.

* * *

The swamp does not like him.

That is the only logical conclusion.

As Diavolo walks behind you, he can _see_ the way vines seem to curl inward so that your robe won't catch on them, the way low-hanging tree branches strain upward so that you can step under them with ease, the way mischievous roots that ghost over the swamp floor flatten as you draw near so that you won't trip on them.

Of course, none of these things happen to _Diavolo_. In fact, the swamp seems to actively disturb him, and all the vines seem to jut out as the demon walks by, low-hanging tree branches dipping even lower to bonk Diavolo on the head when he ducks beneath them, suspicious-looking roots lifting at the very last second so that the demon has no _choice_ but to stumble every time.

Of course, you don't believe him at all when he tells you this—and on the days where you snarkily offer to walk behind him, even the swamp seems to decide not to target Diavolo as much, actively making him look like a fool as you arch an eyebrow and snicker.

"I hate this swamp," The demon mumbles under his breath as the two of you exit it, shooting the trees a sharp scowl as he steps into the familiar field.

"Ah yes," You laugh, folding your arms when you observe your surroundings. "The swamp that attacks you as you pass by, am I correct?"

"It doesn't _attack—"_ Diavolo groans, not even bothering to explain as you chuckle under your breath.

His scowl deepens.

"Alright, we're going to have three matches in total. Is that alright?"

"Three?" Diavolo crosses his arms hesitantly, still skeptical about the idea of fighting you. "We agreed on _one."_

"Consider it three rounds to the one match."

Diavolo groans.

"And _why_ must we face each other three times?" Diavolo questions, crossing his arms. He just wants to get this over with as soon as possible.

"Because the first time, you're going to go easy on me. Then, when I beat you, you're going to stop holding yourself back. And then, the third time, after I've beaten you twice, you'll actually go all-out, and only _then_ will you understand how much stronger I am than you."

Diavolo sighs.

He lets you lead him to the center of the field, approximately halfway between the swamp and the cliffside with over a thousand feet on both sides, but he's still concerned. Hesitant. _Skeptical_ about attacking the person who healed him.

"I'm stronger than you think," He mumbles halfheartedly.

"So am I, Diavolo." You raise your fists, gesturing for him to do the same, but the fighting stance he takes is limp, loose. Barely proper form, as if he doesn't even _want_ to try.

"Diavolo," You whine, dragging out the last syllable of his name. "Why are you so reluctant to fight me?" You ask.

And at that question, Diavolo's response is immediate. Instant. Without a second of hesitation.

"I'm not hesitant to fight you."

The words come out so fast that, for a moment, Diavolo almost _believes_ them. As if his resolve is truly as strong as it was when he first met you. As if he truly wants to kidnap and kill you the same way he originally planned to.

But at that abrupt thought—the sudden realization that he might _not_ want to hurt you—a sick feeling settles in his stomach.

Because if he isn't staying by your side so that he can bring you to the Resistance, what is he doing here?

 _I have to_ , Diavolo realizes numbly. _This fight is a perfect opportunity to prepare for the day when I will have to attack her. I need to understand how she moves. So that I can kidnap her. Because I want to kidnap her. Because I am not having second thoughts. Because I am loyal to Father. Because I am loyal to the Resistance. Because I am a subject of Rebellion, and I have vowed to protect the people._

Diavolo steels himself, trying his absolute hardest to ignore the pricks he feels at his heart, trying to clear his head and look at you no longer as the sweet princess who healed his wounds, but instead as the future tyrant who the entire Devildom hates.

He has to.

Your very existence is a symbol of oppression, Diavolo forces himself to remember. Every day you continue to breathe is another day where the common people of the Devildom are reminded that there is no escape to this torturous rule of oppressors, of hatred, of pain, and of death.

After all, Diavolo will have to kill you one day. And it's best that he begins preparing himself now.

Even if his heart is screaming at him to do otherwise.

The demon fixes his stance, lowering his head and watching you coolly as his fists rise to protect his face.

_She is the enemy._

"Ready?" You ask, voice light.

"You start," Diavolo responds, feeling the familiar beat of adrenaline pump in his ears.

He watches, with astute eyes, as you begin to circle each other, studying the style of your movement.

Your motions have an airy quality to them, so soft and light that it's almost hard for Diavolo to believe that you intend to do any damage. But then, your back foot is withdrawn—finding a foothold on a root peeking out of the ground which Diavolo is _certain_ only appeared because you needed it—and then you're using it to propel your body forward, launching straight at Diavolo's chest and hitting your target with such strength that the demon is briefly reminded of his battle with the Victor.

He hardly registers the moment where he ends up on the grass.

"Round one, _me,"_ You say victoriously, holding Diavolo's shoulders down with one hand while the other is poised in a fist, ready to knock his lights out at any movement.

The demon sputters in shock.

"I _told_ you I'm stronger than you think," You chastise him, stepping back to help him to his feet.

But Diavolo's mind is more preoccupied with how you managed to move so fast. And where you got that power from. And the fact that there was absolutely _no_ way he could have countered that, despite all his years of training with Barbatos.

"Round two," You call out, flashing him a lighthearted smile.

But Diavolo's demeanor is anything but light.

Still shook from your previous demonstration of strength, he regards you with even _more_ focus this time, taking note of the way you move your feet in hopes that it's an indication of your next attack.

And it turns out that he's right.

Right before you jump at him again, you step back with your right foot (again finding balance on a root which raised itself from the ground out of absolutely nowhere) and lunge forward.

But Diavolo swerves to avoid you.

Darting swiftly to the right, he sticks his foot out in an attempt to catch you in midair, and you have to _pull_ yourself down to avoid his kick But you dart up quicker than _anyone_ Diavolo has ever seen, so quick that the demon is entirely unprepared for when you spring to your feet and sucker punch him _straight_ in the face. He staggers back, but you give him no mercy, assaulting him with another flurry of kicks until he's on the ground once more and you're hovering over him, your body set over his in a position that leaves no questions about who the winner is.

You grin.

"Ready to go all out against me now?" You taunt, jumping to your feet once more. This time, Diavolo doesn't even wait for you to help him up.

The two of you begin circling each other instantly, you with a light and carefree attitude while Diavolo's demeanor is much darker—his mind overwhelmed with the sudden realization that you might actually be _stronger_ than him.

The very thought stirs him into action.

This time, he attacks first, throwing a swift side hook that makes full use of the fact that his body is undeniably _larger_ than yours, the fact that while you two are at this distance, you're entirely within _his_ arm span, but he's still out of yours.

You evade, as he expects you to, but then he swipes his leg out, and this time _he's_ the one attacking while you're being pushed back, forcing you to jump between his limbs as he gives you no break from his barrage of assaults.

This third match lasts longer than either of the first two, with Diavolo constantly pushing you back and you never failing to dodge. But the fact that you can't attack him in return is preventing the match from ending too quickly, and the demon actually begins to _gain_ confidence when he realizes just how much he's pressuring you now that you're solely focused on defense.

_Perhaps I gave her too much credit._

He takes a step back, and you fall for his bait, making a sharp swing where his head was—but Diavolo moves quicker than you this time, and in the brief second where your arm is extended beyond your body, he takes advantage of your open stance to punch you.

It's a perfect hit.

The demon's eyes widen when he makes contact, half expecting you to have dodged it by some miracle, but there's no denying the sharp _jolt_ that runs through his fists, and he realized that he actually managed to land a hit on you, for the first time.

Diavolo's eyes widen in disbelief.

You, on the other hand, are just as surprised by the fact; but it looks as if your body moves on its own, your leg raising high before it slams down straight atop Diavolo's head, instantly ending the fight as it follows him down, your foot pressed threateningly against Diavolo's neck the moment his body hits the ground.

But the truth is undeniable.

"You actually landed a hit on me," You murmur in disbelief, moving your foot away and flopping to the ground, spreading your limbs out like a starfish as you stare at the sky in shock.

"You actually managed to beat me three times in a row," Diavolo mutters with equal incredulity, trying to understand _how_ you managed to move so fast that never had time to defend himself.

For a moment, all is still.

There's nothing but the sound of the two of you panting, trying to catch your breath after such rigorous exercise, struggling to regain control of your fast-beating hearts. But then, after a _long_ moment, the sharp inhales turn into longer breaths. And then you're both relaxed once more, quietly sighing to yourselves in exhaustion.

"Fine," Diavolo hears you say with a pout, and the demon studies you with curious eyes as you throw him a look far tearier than you ought to be. "You win. You landed a hit on me, so I don't get to train you. You can go home now. And leave me forever. And do whatever you want for the rest of your life since we'll never see each other again."

Diavolo's eyes widen.

"Are you for real?" He questions, arching an eyebrow at your pouting face. You _genuinely_ look like you're about to cry. "You wanted to train me because you thought I was going to leave if you didn't?"

"I mean…" Diavolo watches as you fumble over your words, an amused smile forming on his lips. "Now that you're healed, I would understand if...you know...because it was _my_ fault you got hurt...so you might not...if you left, then I wouldn't have anyone else…"

"You are..." Diavolo chuckles, trying to hold back his laughter at how dramatic you're being. He flashes you a casual grin, completely laid back as he regards you. "You are something else entirely."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" You ask stubbornly, frowning at the demon.

"Relax," The demons cuts you off with a hand and a grin. "I'll stay. I promise you. And...you can train me."

_If I wish to kidnap her in the future, then it appears that I'll need her help now, at the very least._

A sick feeling begins to form in the demon's stomach as he thinks about that: learning from you and then using your teachings against you to bring you to the Resistance.

_I truly am an awful person, aren't I?_

A bitter smile forms on Diavolo's lips.

But you hardly notice it.

"Really?" You ask, eyes bright and eager. "You'll stay here? You don't want to leave and go home?"

You don't even wait for a response, you just throw your body at Diavolo, wrapping him in the tightest hug possible as you mumble the words "Thank you" and "I appreciate this so much" into his ears, squeezing him into an embrace that the demon nearly struggles to return as he settles his hands over your waist.

"I'll be the best teacher in the world, just you wait."

_And I will be the worst student in the world._

Diavolo presses you closer to his chest so you can't see the utterly pained expression that has smeared itself across his face. His smile, weighed down by thoughts of the inevitable, is nothing but twisted and ugly as he tries to calm himself.

This would all be so much easier if he had maintained his distance as planned. If he had isolated himself from you. If he had forced himself to harbor the resentment he had when he first woke to the sight of you tending to his wounds.

The demon sighs as he raises a hand to card through your hair while you hum in content.

Why must you make it so difficult to hate you?

* * *

Diavolo is a worthy pupil.

The demon is in fact in much better shape than you were when you first met with your combat master, already familiar with how to move his body and how much weight to put behind his punches—and he's already in a learning state of mind, his instincts malleable to your teachings.

But you keep getting distracted.

Every time you correct Diavolo's posture, you have to consciously stop yourself from touching his muscles for too long, and he's caught you staring at his abs _more_ than enough times.

In your defense, you never realized how tightly the blue and white training robes you brought him would fit—the supposed-to-be _loose_ robes nearly skintight on Diavolo's muscled form. It was hardly your fault that the demon decided to discard the overrobe altogether and go shirtless, leaving nothing to your imagination except what his cotton pants conceal.

"I'm ready," Diavolo calls, snapping your attention away from your daydreams (which are turning increasingly sensual with each passing day).

"O-oh," You respond, raising your fists in preparation. "Alright. You throw the first punch, okay? Focus on your breathing and keep your weight off the balls of your feet."

Diavolo answers your commands with a sharp uppercut, one that you smoothly deflect. From there on out, it's back to the routine that the two of you have set over these past twenty days, where there's nothing but the ever-changing tides of offense and defense, jumping and ducking, attacking and deflecting.

Already, the demon has begun to show progress.

You've taught him well how to utilize the full scope of his body weight rather than being held back by it, forcing him to bring his attention to agility rather than power.

After all, Diavolo can throw all the punches in the world—but if he's too slow to land any of them, his destructive power will be met with air.

You grin as he sweeps his leg out, nearly tripping you. It was something you didn't expect, and something you almost wouldn't have been able to dodge if not for the way he angled his body so _obviously_ towards that direction.

"Subtle, Diavolo," You chide. "Don't let your opponent read your body to figure out your next move."

For emphasis, you draw Diavolo into a feint, motioning as if you're going to give him a sharp punch to the stomach with your fist before hitting him on his back with your leg, trying your hardest not to get distracted by the way his back arches deliciously when you make contact.

The demon lets out a groan of pain.

"Oops," You giggle. "Guess I shouldn't have kicked you so hard, huh?"

You drop your stance and begin moving to go check on Diavolo, but the moment you get within his reach, he yanks you forward and forces you to your knees with a triumphant grin.

Eyes widening, you try to kick yourself out of his grip, but you've taught Diavolo well and his grip is nothing but firm, even as he forces you to your knees with an all-too-cheeky grin on his face.

"You cheated," You blurt the moment you realize you've lost. "I was trying to help you, and you _attacked_ me. That's cheating."

"Maybe," He muses. "But either way, I never yielded. And it would appear that you haven't, either."

Diavolo applies more pressure to your neck, and you instinctively flinch because you're not ready to yield yet, and you're hardly about to let Diavolo win this fight when you're so close to having beaten him for the hundredth time in a row, so you struggle even as he continues to build pressure.

You spot your opening the moment he forces your neck lower.

Knocking your heads straight into his kneecaps, you throw thoughts of your own safety to the wind as you headbutt his leg at full-force, pulling all your body weight off of him the second you see your opportunity.

It's then, while Diavolo is staggered on one leg and clutching his other that you take your opportunity to throw him to the ground, pressing his body against the ground definitively while you press his shoulders back and straddle his torso, leaving his legs to flail uselessly as he scowls up at you.

"Do you yield?" You ask, grinning because you know that there's no other option for him.

Still, Diavolo is stubborn.

"No," He mumbles, his lip jutting out stubbornly.

"Oh?" You dig your knee into his side, bringing your head closer to his, effectively forcing him to look at you. "How about now?"

"N-no."

You feel how the demon begins to writhe even more as you apply additional pressure, quietly noting that this particular position seems to be a weak spot for him.

 _Perhaps he has sensitive sides?_ You muse, quietly wondering why he's squirming so much.

Only when you look down to see the faint flush on Diavolo's cheeks do you realize that he might be acting so strange for another reason.

"Diavolo," You murmur, grinning. Hesitant, you alleviate some of the pressure you were digging into his thighs, instead directing your efforts toward sending him a mischievous grin.

"Could it be that you're _embarrassed_ right now?" You question in a lilting tone, grinning as the demon looks away immediately.

You can _feel_ the rise in his body temperature.

"Do you yield?" You ask, bringing your head lower, your lips drawing dangerously close to Diavolo's own.

"I...I don't."

The demon squirms a little more underneath you, and you grin.

"Alright then," You hum. "Don't mind me."

You close your eyes, beginning to lower your head the way you've seen the guards do so often, drawing your lips lower and lower, closer and closer to Diavolo's until you're positive that they must be just a centimeter apart.

 _Just a little more,_ you think, a strange exhilaration filling your body at the prospect of getting to kiss the demon. _Just a little more, and then…_

"I yield."

Your eyes snap open.

"You…"

"I yield," Diavolo repeats, avoiding your gaze entirely.

"Oh," You mutter, suddenly feeling stupid. "Oh," You repeat, before stumbling over yourself to get off the demon.

You've never been so embarrassed.

Were you reading Diavolo's signs wrong? Did you misinterpret the way his eyes always hover over you for a second too long? Was it only your imagination that his cheeks pinken whenever you draw too close?

"I-I'm sorry," You manage to stutter out, unable to meet his eyes.

_Why did you think that he was going to kiss you?_

The question weighs on your mind as the two of you awkwardly split, as you rush back to the palace gates and change out of the commoners' training robes and slip into the imperial gown you were wearing this morning. It dominates your thoughts as you smile politely at the guards who welcome you back while you act as if the lake you claimed to be visiting was yes, just as beautiful as your teacher had told you.

But no matter how you deliberate the question, you cannot come up with an answer.

You know for a fact that Diavolo must like you some.

Why, this is hardly the _first_ time the two of you have been about to kiss—in these past three weeks of training, your lips have been closer than that nearly a hundred times over.

But always, something stops one of you.

And it's beginning to get on your nerves.

"Princess, is something wrong?" A knight asks you, his eyes furrowed as he gazes upon you.

"Huh?" You blink. "A-ah, no. Nothing is wrong, Sire. Thank you for your concern."

"I see." The knight doesn't look like he buys your words one bit, but he drops the subject. "How did you enjoy the Stonelands Lake?"

"It was beautiful," You respond, grinning swiftly. The lie you deliver is practiced, one borne of the teachings in your geography textbook. "The lake certainly lived up to its name. I have never seen such a beautiful location so isolated from all greenery. I think I might visit tomorrow as well, perhaps to fetch a stone as a souvenir of my travels."

"I am glad you enjoyed the trip," The knight responds, offering you a charming smile before bowing. "In your absence, the Empress has summoned you. She wishes for you to meet with her in the audience hall immediately."

"I see. Thank you, Sire." You nod your head at him and begin walking toward the chamber where you know your mother must be. "You are dismissed."

"Of course. And princess, if I may?"

You shoot a glance back at the knight, raising your eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

"There are a few strands of grass stuck in your hair. You may wish to remove them before your audience with the Empress."

Your hand travels to the back of your head, a flush traveling up your cheeks when you realize that the knight has caught you in a lie.

"I—I—" Your lie has unraveled, and your brain is drawing a blank. You have no clue how to explain the strand of grass in your hair.

"Relax, princess." The knight offers you a kind smile. "The royal knighthood may serve the reigning emperor and empress, but you have your own allies within these walls."

He smiles before giving you a bow, and you thank him in a hushed voice, internally vowing to send him a bouquet of flowers in thanks sometime soon.

And then you head off to see your mother.

* * *

Diavolo doesn't bother going back to the temple of the Grim Reaper.

He remains on the cliffside, groaning to himself on the grass while undead chipmunks scurry around next to him, their excited movements seeming to mock Diavolo's own state of misery.

Why? Why must he be so stupid?

The only thing he can see is that horribly _hurt_ expression on your face when he stopped you from kissing him, and the way you all but ran away from him the moment he did so.

He didn't _mean_ to hurt your feelings. Hell, if there's one thing you've successfully taught him in these past three weeks of training, its the fact that he's just as emotionally invested in you as you are in him.

But things are so complicated.

Because even if he can accept the fact that he'll one day have to turn against you, he'll never be able to live with a clean conscience if he courts you first before turning you over to his father.

Then again, the look on your face as you averted your eyes and ran home was evidence enough that he's _already_ hurt you.

 _Good,_ the logical part of him thinks. _This way, the two of us will grow distant once more and then I can bring her to the Resistance with no qualms._

But the irrational part speaks louder. And the irrational part shouts in tandem with Diavolo's own heart, yelling, screaming, _roaring_ at him to go find you and apologize, to hold you and kiss you until you forget that he ever stopped you in the first place.

 _I hate everything_ , Diavolo decides. He hates the imperial palace. The Resistance. Rebellion. His father. Himself. Oh, but he doesn't hate you. No matter how much Diavolo hates the world right now, he _can't_ bring himself to hate you.

"Why can't life be simple?" He moans dramatically, pouting sullenly as a chipmunk runs by, pausing to look at the pout on Diavolo's face, it's bones clattering as it titters and sniffs him.

"Aw, have you been sitting here and moping ever since I left?"

The demon shoots up at that, scaring the chipmunk away as he darts up and turns around, disbelieving eyes ghosting over your figure.

"You're _back?"_ He asks incredulously, used to having to wait for hours upon hours before he's ever able to see you again.

Instinctively, he recalls what you both were like the last time you were here, and his eyes dart down in shame.

"Don't look so sad," You mutter, extending a hand out for him to get up. Only as he stands does he see the strangely delighted look in your eye, a sharp contrast to what you looked like when you were running away from him.

"Why do you look so happy?" Diavolo asks, suspicion coating his words. "You looked like you were about to cry when you left."

"C-cry?" You ask, a flush immediately blooming on your cheeks. "D-don't flatter yourself, Diavolo. I was...I was fine. Perfectly fine. But since you asked, I'm actually doing quite wonderfully now—because I just received the best news of my life."

"The best news of your life, is it? And would you care to elaborate upon what this news might be?"

"Maybe. But you still haven't told me why you were moping so miserably on the ground when I got here."

"Wha—I was _not_ moping," Diavolo retorts defensively, crossing his arms.

"Diavolo, you were lying on your side and talking to a chipmunk. In truth, I think you looked more miserable just now than when I found you beaten bloody at the cage fighting rink, so unless you'd rather I pick an adjective more pathetic than _miserable_ , I think you should agree with me."

The demon lets out a quiet grumble, eyes still downcast even though you seem to have moved on.

"Diavolo, let's fight again."

"Huh?"

Diavolo blinks down at you, trying to read your expression. But there's nothing but a cool confidence brought forth by the supposed 'best news of your life,' and the absolute devastation that had crossed your face when Diavolo declined your advances earlier is completely gone.

"Whoever loses this fight has to answer the winner's questions," He watches you declare, your figure already moving into a combative stance while you grin mischievously.

"I—" Diavolo hesitates.

He doesn't _want_ to fight you again. Not after the last time ended so poorly. But isn't this the reason why he's even here?

As per his father's orders, it's his _job_ to keep tabs on you. To figure out what you're doing. To know what this 'best news of your life is' and whether it bears any threat to the Resistance. To Rebellion.

"Okay," He murmurs, lifting his fists to guard his face, shifting his weight forward to keep his balance light and even. "Loser has to answer the winner's questions. Let's fight."

And then the two of you are at it again.

It feels almost surreal, how smoothly you both transitioned from being awkward to comfortable around each other, one rejecting another's kiss and then returning barely an hour later, wholly unbothered.

Diavolo almost feels himself forgetting the reason he was so miserable, and as he fights you, for the first time since you left, he isn't bombarded with the image of your face as he forced you to pull away, he isn't weighed down by guilt or frustration.

He feels _free._

He feels free as he extends a kick toward your neck, applying so much force that it would kill a demon weaker than you, though you catch it easily and try to spin him off balance.

He feels free as you throw a punch toward his spine, one that Diavolo has to bend his back uncomfortably to avoid.

He feels free as you catch him off balance, lunging forward to latch onto his torso and tackle him to the ground, forcing his shoulders back with your hands while your knees pin his hands down, the remainder of your bodyweight focused on holding his torso down as he struggles against your inescapable hold.

He feels free.

"And with that," You say, grinning. "I win."

Diavolo scoffs in annoyance, a twinge of irritation settling in his eyes at the prospect of not getting to learn the supposed 'best news of your life.' Then again, he's positive that you'll tell him when the time comes, so he relaxes under your grip.

"Ask away," He grunts, feeling embarrassed as you hover over him.

"What did you say to that undead chipmunk?"

"I asked it why life has to be so complicated."

"Oh?" Your eyebrows furrow cutely, and Diavolo has to look away to prevent the flush on his neck from creeping any higher. He tries to press his body into the grass, wondering if he can maybe escape your hold by going _beneath_ you, but the ground is unforgiving. "What's making your life so complicated?"

"Nothing," Diavolo mumbles, but the warning look you give him makes him speak again. "I mean, everything. Almost. Things were complicated long before we met."

_Though meeting you certainly made a bigger mess out of everything._

"You're telling me that the reason you were so miserable is because you think your life is super complicated?" You ask, hesitant about whether you have the truth of it.

"Sort of."

"...And what are some of these oh so complicated things you're referring to?"

"Almost everything," Diavolo says, scowling. "Me. My circumstances. You. Your circu—"

"Hold up," You cut Diavolo off, frowning. "What's complicated about me? I'm, like, the least complicated person in the world. All I do is frolic around with you in the fields all day long and run home when it gets too cold."

_Yeah. That's what you think I believe, at least._

Diavolo casts his eyes away from yours, opting instead to study the thin patch of skin which is exposed by the way you're sitting, quietly wondering how soft it would feel under his fingers.

"Unless…" Your voice trails off, and Diavolo sees a grin spread across your face.

A familiar grin.

_Oh no._

"Diavolo," You say, dragging his name out. "Why did you yield to me earlier?"

"B...because…" The demon trails off, trying to find one of the lies he used to be able to tell you so easily, but he's distracted. Distracted by the strip of skin which is visible by the way your robe is riding up on your thigh, distracted by the way your hair is so close to _him_ but his hands are pinned down so he can't touch it the way he wants to, distracted by the way you're leaning closer and how he was able to resist your lips before, but he doesn't think he can do it a second time.

He's distracted by _you._

"Because what, Diavolo?" You whisper into his ear, and his name has never sounded so sultry as when it rolls off of your lips.

"Because it's _complicated!"_ He groans, scrunching his eyes shut in an attempt to close out everything.

He needs to calm himself down. He needs to get ahold of himself. He needs to _stop_ focusing on the way your legs shift as you move above him and how your training robe is now hiked up even higher and—

He groans, closing his eyes, trying to take calming breaths.

He cannot do this. He cannot give in. He is Diavolo, son of the leader of the Resistance, future heir to the royal throne, the orchestrator of Rebellion. He cannot give in to the silly whims of temptation, no matter how he wants to, no matter how _blissful_ your touch feels on his skin, no matter how _tender_ your—

"Diavolo?"

The demon forces himself to look up at you, up at your soft, earnest eyes which seem to hold the whole world in them.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

That sentence breaks him.

You smile sweetly at him as he sputters out incoherent sentences, his body torn between his mind which screams at him to push you away for the sake of Rebellion and his heart which tries to pull the two of you closer with every _thump_ that rings out in Diavolo's ears.

His fingers shake with uncertainty as he tries to figure out what to do, what do say, what to _think_ as the most beautiful woman he's ever seen repeats her offer to kiss him, gazing down at him with such a marvelous grin.

And suddenly, Diavolo doesn't understand _how_ he got into this position, with you straddling his upper body and grinning down at him like the mischievous little devil you are, holding his body firm against the grass as your knees weigh down on his hands.

It feels so impossible. Didn't he do everything right? Didn't he actively push you away?

Clearly, whatever he did failed to work.

Because he's never wanted to kiss anyone more than he wants to kiss you right now.

"Let me kiss you," You repeat, your eyes confident as they click with his.

A hand finds its way onto Diavolo's jaw, tracing the sharp angle of the flesh.

"I…" The demon trails off, his voice thick with tension. Thoughts flare in his mind: thoughts of Rebellion and the Resistance and everything which demands he push you off.

The demon closes his eyes.

"Okay," He hears you murmur above him, your voice sounding pained and...hurt? "If you don't want this, then I don't...I don't want it either."

His eyes fly open to see you staring at the ground, a resigned look on your face as you try to get off of him, looking utterly defeated once more as you realize that he's now rejected your advances twice in the same day.

Diavolo's body moves before his mouth does.

A hand darts out to grip your wrist, his weak grip speaking volumes.

"Please," He croaks, quietly realizing that he's forsaking everything. That the path he's about to journey down leads to nothing but ruin, either for you or for Diavolo or for both of you, but he doesn't care about that because you're about to leave and he's never been so desperate for someone to stay.

"Kiss me."

Two words, phrased as a command but nothing of the like, and as you move your lips down to heed him, Diavolo _knows_ that he's lost. That this battle he's been fighting with himself is over. That if his father ever finds out, the man will be wholly disappointed and that with each passing second, Diavolo puts Rebellion at risk.

But the moment your lips connect with his, none of that matters anymore.

Your touch lights a warmth in him, spreading throughout his whole body, melting away all the feelings of hesitance and frustration which had taken root, leaving nothing but a tingling sweetness everywhere your skin touches his.

The turmoil Diavolo was feeling is nothing compared to the sweetness of your kiss, so saccharine that he thinks he could lay like this forever with his lips under yours, fingers intertwined beneath the Devildom moon on a cliffside untouched by reality.

It feels surreal, it feels impossibly real.

It feels thrilling, it feels natural.

It feels like everything and nothing, and Diavolo suddenly wonders why he ever held himself back.

"Again," He whispers when you pull away after a long time, not even opening his eyes.

You give in to his request, pressing your lips deliciously against him a second time. And then a third time. And a fourth. And then Diavolo has lost count, because there is no longer any beginning or any beginning to your touch; there is only _you_ , as if you are the only thing he has ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 7.4k
> 
> Notes: my ex wants to get back with me :( this sucks because we go to the same college and i acc need to see and talk to him 
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Next Update: 8/26/20
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	4. 80 Days Before Rebellion

It's the first time that Diavolo has felt such peace.

The way you move your lips is nothing but _serene_ , your movements fluid like water but tranquil all the same. The hands you've brought to rest atop the demon's chest lie so delicately, so gently, so tenderly that it feels like the slightest breath of wind might whisk them away, and the very thought makes Diavolo pull you closer against him, his hold around your waist tightening.

The demon hardly even registers the moment when you part his lips and slip your tongue inside—nor does he understand how easily you coax him into letting you lead him through the movements. For the first time in his life, he isn't possessed with a need to assert dominance over the one he is with, merely opting to savor the sensation of your touch, letting you take the lead instead.

It is utterly unbefitting of a future prince, he knows.

And yet, Diavolo cannot bring himself to care.

"Stay with me tonight."

Four words, mumbled so softly that the demon almost thinks you might have missed them. But even if you don't hear them with the way the wind has pulled Diavolo's voice from him, you _feel_ the words as he whispers them against your lips.

You lift your head off, your eyes softening at the sight beneath you.

"Diavolo," You tease, a coy smile spreading on your lips. _God,_ Diavolo thinks. He isn't sure whether he wants to kiss those lips again or simply savor the sight of them spread in such a delicious grin. "If that's your way of asking to bed me, I'm afraid you'll learn that a lady such as I cannot be courted in a single night."

"B- _bed_ you?!" The demon sputters, incredulous. "I—I did not mean—I am a proper man, and I would hardly—would never _bed_ someone on the first night—I mean—unless you _wanted to_ , now that would be a different story—not to imply—I would never—"

"Diavolo," You murmur into the demon's ear, silencing him with the sultry way your voice falls. "I was only teasing."

_Ah. Of course._

When did Diavolo become so susceptible to your ways?

The demon closes his eyes in shame as you capture his lips in another sweet kiss, almost forgetting his prior embarrassment with the way you seem to pull him into a new world the moment your lips collide—a world free of imperial tyrants, overzealous Resistance leaders, and a terrifying Rebellion which will mark the end of all things beautiful.

Indeed, Diavolo could kiss you for centuries and still not tire.

But you pull away all too soon, raising your lips until they're just a hair's width above Diavolo's own.

"But I can't stay here," You mumble softly. "The guar—m-my family, I mean. My family will be looking for me. And my house is far from here. Not in the direction of the palace, of course. It's, um, the other way. Uh, a bit northwest, you know? A-and if my family walks into my room and sees that I'm not there by morning, they'll get...scared. And I'll be, um, in trouble."

Diavolo sighs at your atrocious lying, deciding to find it endearing instead of fixating on how poorly you hide the truth.

"When do you have to go?" Diavolo murmurs in response, quietly praying that it'll be a suitably late time because, right now, all he wants to do is lie in your arms and kiss you some more.

"My mai—my family usually wakes me up around six in the morning. And it takes around two hours to get there from here. It should be around midnight right now, but I _do_ need to sleep a little, so it's best if I leave now, if I'm honest—"

"Sleep here."

The words are out of Diavolo's mouth before he can process them. But for once, he sticks with his quiet gut instinct, intertwining his fingers with yours when you still look unconvinced.

"I'll wake you up at four in the morning. I promise. I won't fall asleep. I just—" Diavolo hesitates, not knowing whether he should say these next words or not. Whether they'll make him too vulnerable, and whether you'll turn him away for saying something so weak.

But he chooses to say them anyway.

"I just don't want to be alone right now."

"Oh, _Diavolo."_ You wrap your arms around him instantly, burying your head in his neck. It's actually the first time you're hugging him and the demon is hugging you _back_ , reciprocating your hold by clutching your waist loosely as he rests his head above yours. "You're the absolute sweetest demon in the world, do you know that?"

_I'm really not._

"You flatter me. But is that a yes? Will you stay with me tonight?"

There's a moment's hesitation in your eyes, a flash of concern. But when Diavolo swears to the Grim Reaper that he won't fall asleep and that he'll wake you the _second_ he hears four consecutive bells ring out from the city districts, you give in.

"Okay," You mumble, pressing a chaste kiss to Diavolo's lips. "But I _really_ have to sleep now, otherwise I'll be too exhausted to visit you in the afternoon."

A low laugh escapes Diavolo, a sound he hasn't heard in all too long. "That's fine, darling," He whispers, the pet name slipping from his lips so naturally that he doesn't even register it. He presses a kiss to your temple as you make yourself comfortable on his chest, wrapping your arms around him. "You can take a nap in the afternoon as well, if you'd like."

"'Darling?'" You arch an eye up at him, your gaze curious.

Diavolo's cheeks flush.

He _did_ call you that just now, didn't he? How ridiculous. He didn't even _notice_ when the endearment escaped his lips, he was so distracted by how adorable you looked when you curled up on his chest. "I didn't—" The demon chokes, trying to find his words. "It was a mistake—a slip of the tongue—please don't think—unless you _want_ to think—"

"Diavolo." You silence him with a sleepy grin, pressing a kiss to his chest to get his attention. "It's alright. I actually like it when you call me darling, _darling."_

You don't even wait for Diavolo to get ahold of himself then, shutting your eyes and resting your head on his chest once more, already beginning to drift off by the time Diavolo has stopped sputtering in shock at your words.

The demon's cheeks burn as he holds you, and never have his fingers felt as _clumsy_ as when he grips your shoulder and waist, tugging you closer to him in an attempt to protect you from the wind. All he can think of is the way you called him _darling_ , and that utterly enchanting grin on your face as you said it.

_Someone save me_ , Diavolo thinks, staring at the midnight sky above him. _This princess truly will be the death of me._

And then, perhaps it was Diavolo's poor wording—for indeed, he mused that he needs saving but he didn't _truly_ desire for anyone to come, for anyone to steal him from this moment of utter bliss

But life's pleasures are few and far between, rarer than a Devildom blue moon.

And it would seem that the world wishes to give Diavolo none of these moments of peace.

**_My son._ **

Diavolo flinches the second his father's voice rings out in his ears, and he instinctively drops his gaze to look at you, to check whether you've woken to the buzz of magic which is now radiating off of his body.

"F-Father," Diavolo whispers, his voice so faint that, for a moment, he almost thinks that he might need to repeat his words.

**_Why are you whispering, my child? Have you foolishly gone and alerted some guards of your presence?_ **

"No!" Diavolo retorts instinctively, but when he sees the way you shift on his chest, he lowers his voice. "I—I'm simply in a rather delicate position at the moment."

**_A delicate position? What, are you in bed with someone right now?_ **

"Ah, well..." Diavolo trails off, trying to find a lie. And while this task would be so _incredibly_ easy if he were speaking with someone else, _anyone_ else, the demon cannot lie to his father.

So he settles for silence.

**_My son,_** his father's voice comes, cruel and sharp as it cuts through Diavolo's mind. **_Do you understand that when I tasked you with the role of growing close to the princess, my orders were to focus explicitly on her and no other?_**

"Yes, Father," Diavolo mumbles. "But—"

**_And do you understand that when I want you to focus on the princess and no other, I expect you NOT to go around bedding any demon foolish enough to spread their legs for you?_ **

"F-Father," Diavolo mumbles, not used to such chastising remarks. "Please understand that—"

**_No, Diavolo. I need YOU to understand that this behavior is utterly unacceptable for the man who will one day rule the Devildom. You need to recognize that when you are given a task like this, a task so delicate that I can only trust my own blood, your obligations are to stay loyal to that task and only that task, and to slay anything which might hinder your ability in completing it._ **

Diavolo opens his mouth to stop his father, but the demon is continuing before he can get a word out. ** _  
_**

**_And you need to see that there are consequences to these utterly foolish acts you commit, and so I ask you this question. Or rather, I order you to answer it—which vile fool did you bed, and give me their name so that I may send Barbatos to slay them by the end of the hour. Or hold your silence, and I will use my own powers to learn the truth, and I will make you watch as I torture them for a century._ **

Diavolo's heart beats fast in his ear, loud and fast pumps which he almost fears will wake you up—but you continue to sleep even as his father chastises him, as his father demands the name of the person Diavolo is with.

"The..." Diavolo can barely bring himself to speak up, so ashamed after his father's words.

**_Speak up, my son. Do not make me punish you for your inability to answer a direct question._ **

Diavolo stiffens, his voice dry in his throat. He feels like he is betraying you as he prepares to answer his father, and indeed it is the most bitter feeling he has ever felt—a feeling so potent that the thought of what he will one day have to do to you terrifies him to the core.

"The princess, Father." Diavolo's voice has never been so weak. "I'm with the princess."

**_The..._ **

For the first time in millennia, Diavolo hears his father trail off in utter bewilderment, too baffled to even finish his sentence. Of course, that only lasts a moment, and then the thick sound of laughter rings through Diavolo's ears, a sound all too _merry_ for the utterly sick feeling in the depths of the demon's stomach.

**_Well, why didn't you lead with that, my son?_ **

His father has never sound so pleased.

**_This is brilliant. You have fulfilled your task with even greater precision than I expected. Ha! To think that the princess is so foolish that she would lower her guard around you enough to let you bed her!_ **

"She...she is not foolish," Diavolo mumbles under his breath, trying to mask the bitterness in his voice from hearing his father insult you so casually. He doesn't bother correcting the man, doesn't bother explaining that you haven't actually slept with Diavolo and that you're just laying together—because there's no way for the demon to explain why he would readily partake in something so intimate without disclosing the _feelings_ he's developed.

**_Ah, yes. I suppose you wouldn't consider her foolish, if she was smart enough to choose you. Of course, I will admit that the princess has taste. But for her to open her heart to you so readily..._ **

Another hearty laugh.

**_Diavolo! You have done a wonderful job, my son. Continue this work. Your new orders are to grow as close to the princess as possible. Kiss her, bed her, impregnate her; do whatever you think is necessary. She is the key to the future, and without her, Rebellion will never come to fruition. Your work thus far is beyond my highest dreams, but I still and always will need you to do more._ **

"Of...of course." Diavolo swallows thickly as he processes his orders, as he processes the fact that his affection for you is no longer his own but is now an _order_ from his father. "And...Father?"

**_Yes, my son?_ **

"Just a small question. A curiosity, if you will. Nothing important, really, but I don't mean to—"

**_Get on with it, Diavolo._ **

"...Is there any way that the princess might survive Rebellion?"

And for the second time since his father connected himself to Diavolo through his magic, the man is silent.

Diavolo holds his breath, quietly listening to the sound of the wind as it rises and falls, making ominous sounds that should warn the demon that his father's next words will be far from pleasant.

**_My son. You recall the details of our plan, correct?_ **

"Yes."

**_You understand that the fate of the princess is the one thing that must go perfectly for Rebellion to work? That it is the only thing crucial to gain the support of the masses? That without her death, we have no way of preventing other Resistance factions from rising up once we have taken the palace?_ **

"Y-yes, I know all that. I was simply wondering if there was any other way we could secure our position on the throne without having to—"

**_Diavolo._ **

His voice falters in his throat, and he has to choke back a sob before his father can hear it.

**_You know just as well as I do that this is the only way._ **

But Diavolo remains silent. Too preoccupied with clutching the girl who's laying so peacefully atop him, trusting him to the core, Diavolo can hardly even think about his father's words as he practically clings to your figure, holding you in a silent apology for the things he will have to do to you.

**_My son. Answer me true. Have you begun to care for the princess?_ **

Diavolo cannot respond.

**_Hear my words and speak. I must know, for the sake of the Resistance—has she planted seeds of doubt into your mind? Are you questioning your faith in Rebellion?_ **

More silence. But the truth is that Diavolo doesn't need to speak, his father knows him too well.

**_Diavolo. I need you to understand that no matter how this princess has manipulated you into harboring some affection for her—_ **

"She didn't _manipulate_ me," Diavolo interrupts rudely, not even caring about how his father would ordinarily slap him for cutting him off. But the other demon just continues talking, ignoring his son's words.

**_The world is more important. The goal of the Resistance, what we wish to achieve through Rebellion—all of that is more important than any individual. It is more important than you, me, the princess, and perhaps even the Resistance altogether. You know this, no? You cannot risk the world on your own whims. You must be stronger than that._ **

"I know, Father." Diavolo closes his eyes, wishing that he didn't. He wishes that he were stupider, dumber, slower. Because maybe then, he might be able to convince himself of the _slight_ possibility that the feelings blooming in his heart may amount to anything other than heartbreak.

But Diavolo isn't stupid.

And he isn't dumb.

And he isn't slow.

And he knows all too well that, unless he wants to doom the entire world to an eternity of oppression, he must see Rebellion to its completion.

And you will be the sacrifice to ensure a future of peace.

**_Diavolo, speak to me. Are you growing attached to the princess? Tell me the truth, and I may be able to separate the two of you before she manipulates you into anything too—_ **

"I think she's about to wake up," Diavolo mumbles the words into your hair, ignoring the way his eyes are filling with water. "I think you should go, Father."

And then, just one second later, the presence is gone. The weight of magic has dissipated. The sensation of telepathy has evaporated into the air, leaving nothing but the quiet sound of Diavolo's choked breaths as his mind recalls the details of Rebellion—the details for the fate that _he_ will have to lay down upon your shoulders.

His mind isn't filled with thoughts of his father. He already knows that the words, the offer to split the two of you are apart, were nothing but a sweet lie to give him a glimmer of false hope. This issue is too delicate to leave in the hands of any other. No, it truly must be _Diavolo_ who gains your trust and tears it apart in the end, loving you one night and then killing you the next.

"I'm sorry," He mumbles into your hair, allowing the tears of guilt, the tears of shame, the tears of _regret_ to spill down his cheek only in your presence, in this isolated cliffside where there's no one but you to judge him.

"I'm so sorry."

* * *

You haven't been paying much attention to your lessons lately.

You know that it's important, that in no way should you be ignoring your teacher while he drawls on about political relations between the Devildom and the Celestial Realm, but your mind won't focus. Rather, it _can't_ focus.

And all because of one amber-eyed demon.

You sigh softly as your teacher begins rambling about the Morningstar and the other holy seraphim, tuning the demon out in favor of recalling your lover.

Can you even _call_ Diavolo your lover?

A pout makes its way onto your face as you contemplate the way he acted last night, so hesitant as he woke you, reluctant to even return the kiss you gave him. You thought that he had finally given in to whatever was holding him back when he kissed you so passionately at night and then asked you to stay by his side—but it's obvious he entertained second thoughts while you slumbered.

You frown.

This is the first time you've ever met such a troublesome man. The first time, in fact, that you've actually grown close to any man at all. But you're positive that they aren't all supposed to be like this. That others are more willing to pursue what their heart so obviously desires.

And there's no way that you're misreading the look of pure _adoration_ that flashes in Diavolo's eyes every time he looks at you.

Though as of recent, you've begun to notice that the looks of awe last shorter, and that they're being replaced with a darker emotion. One you can't quite place—but you're certain you've seen it before. _What could it be?_ You wonder. _Anger? Frustration? Sadness?_

Nothing quite seems to fit.

_Perhaps it's guilt?_

"My lady, are you even paying attention?"

Your eyes snap open, flying from the window you were gazing at to your teacher, who arches an unimpressed eyebrow when he notes the way you fumble with your notes to figure out what the current topic is.

"Of course," You respond quickly, trying to make out the scribbled writing on the chalkboard. "We were discussing the...Morningstar? Weren't we? We were? Yes, we were discussing the Morningstar...and what his role is in the Celestial Realm," You add, venturing a guess and hoping that you're right.

"That is correct. And can you tell me even a single fact about the Morningstar?"

Oh. That, you can't.

"He's very...handsome?" You offer, glancing at the painting of him in your textbook and offering a sheepish smile to the demon in front of you.

Your teacher groans on instinct, closing his eyes in irritation at the realization that he'll have to go over this entire lesson once more. Thankfully, you're saved from another boring lecture when the door swings open after two crisp knocks, a familiar knight emerging forth.

"Excuse me, Sir." The knight nods stiffly at your teacher before turning to you. "My lady, you have been summoned by the Empress.""

"Oh, really?" You ask, jumping out of your seat with a grin. You've never been more thankful for an excuse to leave class early. "How unfortunate that I have to leave! I was truly enjoying the material, Sir. But my mother called for me now, yeah? So looks like I'll have to head out. Sorry!"

You flash a cheeky grin to your teacher before skipping out of the room, ignoring his quiet grumbles about what a terrible student you are. The knight behind you lets out a quiet laugh as he closes the door.

"Princess," He calls, prompting you to turn around. "I received the bouquet of flowers you sent me. It was in exquisite taste, I must say, and I am extremely grateful for this act of courtesy. Please inform me if you wish for anything in return."

"Huh?" You turn around, studying the knight's face. And sure enough, it _is_ the man who you delivered a bouquet to, the demon who told you about the grass in your hair and kept it a secret. "Oh," You respond, pausing to smile. "There's no need for thanks, Sire. I appreciate what you did for me, and the bouquet was but a token of my gratitude."

"Still, it has been many centuries since a member of the royal class expressed their appreciation for a servant to the crown. These things are rare, and...I wanted to inform you that I am honored to have received such a thing."

_Really?_ You wonder, studying the knight curiously as you ponder his words. After all, they _seem_ to be true. This is the first time you've ever thanked someone in the form of a gift, and you've certainly never seen your parents hand out any presents to their servants.

"Interesting," You mutter, eyes slightly blank. "I'll... I'll have to amend that."

"Ah, and the Empress recently informed us of the news," The knight continues, walking only slightly behind you as you venture to your mother's chambers. "I offer you my congratulations, princess. I never expected that this would happen so soon, though I'm certain you're well-prepared for it."

"Thank you, Sire. Though I must say, I _am_ surprised that the public was informed so soon. I expected my mother to keep it private for a few months more."

"Oh, the public isn't aware yet. Based on what I heard when I sat in on one of the Emperor's meetings with his council, your mother and father wish to inform them when the first snow arrives."

"The first snow?" You mumble. "But it's still summer..."

You had been hoping to tell Diavolo about this news—which genuinely is the best news of your life—to finally end the lies and show him your true identity in the process, but it looks like you'll have to wait some time longer.

"I'm sure they simply wanted to make the announcement on a special occasion. It is said that, for the lower districts in the Devildom, the first snow is the happiest day of every year because the children love it so much. They must hope that the excitement from the first snow will make your news even more special."

"I see," You mumble softly, pausing in front of the door that leads to your mother's chambers. "Oh, Sire?"

"Yes, princess?" The knight looks at you curiously, holding his posture still as you wait. He looks he was about to turn around, too used at being instantly dismissed, but you want to break the habit of servitude and silence.

"Thank you for all your help," You say, flashing the man a dazzling smile. "I sincerely appreciate your words, and I want to thank you for walking me here. Alongside everything else that you do for the crown, of course. I don't know where my family would be without men like you." You watch as he's momentarily flustered, almost reminding you of Diavolo with the way the words seem to catch in his throat when he tries to speak, but you knock on the door before he can bounce the words of thanks back at you, grinning quietly as you go to see your mother.

"Thanks again, Sire!" You whisper, winking as you close the door before he can construe any response, savoring his expression of utter shock.

_One knight down, three hundred ninety-nine left to thank._

These changes will be slow, but you plan to make amends in the palace.

And that starts with showing some appreciation for the ones serving you.

* * *

"The cage fights."

Diavolo watches you through exhausted eyes as you stand over him, having beat him once more in a fight. Of course, he doesn't mind losing to you so much anymore, not now that you give him such a sweet kiss whenever he falls to the ground.

What Diavolo _does_ mind is the guilt that plagues his heart every time he looks at you.

As usual, though, he has to push it aside when you flop down onto the grass next to him, shooting him a beautiful smile that he _knows_ he doesn't deserve.

"Let's train for the next season's cage fights."

Diavolo arches a doubtful eyebrow at that, already prepared to launch into a full explanation of why that's a _terrible_ idea after he was beaten so horribly the last time, but you're speaking again before he can get a word in. "I know you probably have some bad memories associated with them—but think about it! We need a specific goal in mind if we want to achieve anything with our training, and that's a perfect target! I even think you have the potential to be the next season's Victor, if you work really hard."

Diavolo scoffs.

"I can't even beat _you_ , so how am I supposed to beat the Victor?" The demon crosses his arms, quietly trying to determine some way of talking you out of this.

"Excuse me?" You ask. "I'll have you know that I'm stronger than the Victor."

"Debatable," Diavolo mutters under his breath, quietly remembering the way the demon had literally _stomped_ on his skull until he passed out, injuring Diavolo so severely that he was knocked out for weeks afterward. "But I still don't think it's a good idea."

"And why not?"

_Because the reason I was fighting in cage fights was so that all the other fighters would see me as the Victor and recognize me as the strongest. So that I could have all the top fighters join the Resistance and harness their strength to put your family's heads on stakes. So that they would look at me and respect me and help me kill you, whereupon I would take your place as the Devildom's new prince._

But all Diavolo says is, "It's a bad idea."

It's wholly contradictory—that Diavolo learns the ways of combat from you so that he can use your moves against you, but is unwilling to use your moves to gain traction in the underground community. And while it's a pathetic attempt at being noble, it's _all_ he can do to preserve his sense of self, to give himself _some_ semblance of control in this situation that's already beyond him.

All you do is scowl by his side, pulling grass out of the ground and then sprinkling it on his bare chest in a petty retaliation, swatting his hands away whenever he tries to dust the greens away.

"Don't you think that's enough?" Diavolo mumbles when his chest is covered so thickly that his body is beginning to blend into the ground, and the strands are tickling him.

"No," You mumble, an adorable pout still on your face.

"Oh, really?" He questions as you sprinkle more on his chest, dipping your fingers into the soil and spreading some of _that_ on his chest. "Darling," Diavolo mutters quietly as you uproot some more grass, darting a hand out to catch your wrist. "This was _not_ a good idea."

The demon doesn't give you any time to process the mischievous glint in his eyes, pulling you close against him before you can dart away, trapping you in a one-armed hug while his other hand swipes half the grass you sprinkled onto his chest and rubs it into your hair, ruining your hairstyle and turning your (h/c) tresses green and brown with earth.

"Diavolo!" You screech as he smears some dirt onto your face for good measure, grinning triumphantly when his chest is bare of grass and you look utterly _ruined_ , as if a tornado had run through your body and then it had rained down with grass afterward.

"You're _awful!"_ You blurt, desperately trying to shake some of the grass out of your hair, to no avail.

"Ah, and you're quite beautiful this way," Diavolo quips in return, grinning at the sight of you. Indeed, you no longer seem to have that regal charm that holds you so poised and elegant. For the first time, you look like a proper commoner. A very indignant and mortified commoner, but a commoner, nonetheless.

"Oh, I _hate_ you," You mumble in disbelief, trying to rub the dirt off your cheeks while Diavolo watches, his laugh spilling with more sincerity than he's had in ages.

He grins as you try to sort out your hair, try to fix your robe, try to clean your cheeks, all with no success.

Never has the demon been so proud.

You look at him with mock anger, your gaze utterly annoyed but somehow joyous at the same time, and he feels an overwhelming urge to kiss you, right here and right now.

But as usual, the high he feels at messing around with you is followed by a crash, and the reality strikes _hard_ when Diavolo realizes that, one day, you really will hate him. And that he's going to have to kill you. And that every second you spend together is a prelude to misery, a setup for a tragedy, a harbinger of despair.

His expression sours instantly.

"Diavolo?" You ask, your carefree expression morphing into concern when you see how quickly his demeanor has shifted. "What's... what's wrong?"

"Nothing," He mumbles quietly, extending a hand out to brush the dirt you missed off your cheek.

"It's not nothing," You mumble, pushing his hand away. "You always do this, Diavolo. Please, tell me what's wrong."

"Always do what?" The demon asks. He tries to play it off as a joke, curling his lips into a pained smile. "Smudge dirt on your face and put grass in your hair?"

But you don't find his joke funny.

"You know what I mean," You mumble, scooting forward to cup his face. You brush his cheek softly with your thumbs, fingers ghosting over the defined cheekbones there. "You always look so relaxed and so carefree and so _happy..._ and then you seem to think of something, and you're miserable for the rest of the day." You pause, frowning. "Please. I'm here for you. Tell me what's wrong."

"I..." The demon trails off, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't. Please. Things are just so...complicated."

You sigh, lowering your hands to rest them on his shoulders.

"Believe me, Diavolo. I know how complicated things can get. But right now, it's just you and me. This is a safe place, and no one can disturb or hurt us. Whatever is in your past that's causing you to act this way... you're free from it, here."

"And what about the future?" Diavolo asks sharply. "What if I hurt you one day? What if it's inevitable, and every second we spend together is just going to make things worse?"

Diavolo's anger flares, though it's not directed at you. He's angry at his father. At the Resistance. At Rebellion. At himself. He's angry at this cruel, cruel world and the fact that you were ever placed in it.

You pause, entirely taken aback.

_A thousand curses,_ Diavolo realizes, processing the words he just spoke. _I've said too much. She'll figure out who I am, now. I need to leave. I've failed Father. I've compromised everything._

But, as usual, when you next speak, your words are the furthest thing from anything Diavolo would expect.

"Haven't you ever heard of living in the present?" You mumble, voice quiet. When Diavolo doesn't respond, you continue. "Why are you so focused on what might be? If you live your life like that, you'll never get anywhere. You'll be stuck in place, too afraid to move. Too afraid to love. Too afraid to do anything other than be stagnant."

You lean forward, resting your forehead on Diavolo's.

"Tell me, are you promised to another? Is that why you're so scared of hurting me?"

"No."

"Do you love someone else? Is there someone you left behind when I brought you here?"

"No."

"Do you genuinely not want to be with me? Am I..."

Diavolo swallows thickly. You don't need to say your next words, the demon already knows them: _Am I not enough?_

His hands fly up to cup your cheeks before you can get inside your own head, his eyes flaring with the urgent need to correct you, to tell you how _wrong_ you are.

"You are enough," He clarifies, eyes shining with sincerity. "You are enough and so much more. And I want to be with you _so_ badly, but—"

"But _what,_ Diavolo? If you want to be with me, then that's _that_ , because I want to be with you, and I don't understand why you look so miserable every time you hold me close!"

"I just want you to be _happy,"_ The demon tries to reason, his voice beginning to sound desperate with yearning.

"If you want me to be happy, then you'll _kiss_ me," You declare with finality, silencing him with that single command. "You'll kiss me, and you'll hold me, and someday you'll make love to me, and you'll _abandon_ whatever is holding you back, because either I'm happy and I'm with you, or you're making me miserable and you're going to drive us apart." And indeed, there lies not an ounce of hesitation in your words, nor is there any room for debate. There is only the undeniable fact that _you_ want _him_ and that every time he pulls away, he hurts you.

And how can Diavolo deny you when you lay your heart bare in front of him?

For the first time, there's no hesitation behind Diavolo's lips when he presses himself forward, when he obeys your command like you are a queen and his only duty is to serve you, to please you, to love you and treasure you.

Diavolo can feel your immediate smile of relief when you see how he kisses you with such passion, the demon taking control as he pushes your body back against the ground, crashing his lips against yours in a meeting filled with emotion, desire, and _need_. His hands fly to your hair, desperate to pull you closer to him, press your lips firmer against his, pull your body tighter next to his until the space between you has all but vanished, and there is only your touch.

The demon is lightheaded when he pulls his lips away from yours, gasping for air as he studies your flushed features, savoring the sight of your disheveled hair and dazed eyes.

He gazes down at you, quietly pondering three words that he wants to say so desperately—and you almost seem to understand them with the way your eyes soften.

A warmth blooms in Diavolo's heart.

"Diavolo," You mumble, the unspoken plea dancing off your lips in the breathlessness with which you speak.

The demon obliges without hesitation. It's hardly a single second before he's lowered himself back onto your lips, capturing yours and savoring the contented sigh you give when your fingers tangle themselves in his hair.

His mind slowly grows blank, a familiar feeling that only you can induce, strengthened with each tug you pull against his hair. Once more, he loses himself in the feeling of _you_ , finally forgetting about his father and the Resistance after the two have taunted his thoughts for so long.

But, for once, he cannot forget about Rebellion.

It looms over his mind like a shadow that intrudes into darkness, creeping over his shoulder even as he kisses you harder, trying to shake the feeling.

But it won't go away.

But, for the moment, that's okay. Because he's going to give your words a try—and he's going to live in the present. Going to savor the time he has left with you. Going to make as many memories as he can, so that they can keep him company even after the inevitable.

So Diavolo just pulls you closer and kisses you deeper, ignoring every alarm in his mind that tries to prevent the tragedy you've convinced him to embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 6.2k
> 
> Notes: forgot to post but i wsoke up and remembered. original title of this fic was "a prelude to misery"
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Next Update: 8/29/20
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	5. 50 Days Before Rebellion

The world has finally slowed down.

The wind is calmer now. The blades of grass that tickle Diavolo's sides don't poke into his skin, merely brushing by as the tips bend back and forth with the breeze. The vines on the trees don't seem to swing so ominously anymore, instead swaying to and fro as if dancing to the lilting melody that escapes your lips as you hum an unfamiliar tune.

The animals on the cliffside seem equally entranced by the picture of peace, undead chipmunks no longer scurrying in a rush as they instead watch the two of you from a distance, all of them mesmerized. A few brave creatures draw close enough to sniff at Diavolo's feet.

Indeed, the world truly has slowed down.

Diavolo can close his eyes and _feel_ the rhythm of the Devildom ground lurking just under the hum of your voice, pulsing silently to the beat of magic. And indeed, even _that_ is fainter than Diavolo recalls, everything around him muted and subdued but the sensation of your touch.

He opens his eyes lazily, studying your face. Your focus remains on his hair, of course, determined to free the red locks that have been knotted for so long. It's only an issue of convenience that Diavolo is allowed to rest his head on your thighs as you work, fingers feeling blissfully sweet even when they tug sharply on the strands that are so deeply entangled.

_She's a goddess_ , the demon thinks, eyes studying your surreal beauty as he observes you from this new angle. He can never grow used to the sight of your face, not fully. No matter how beautiful you look in his mind's eye, reality is always sweeter. It's as if his brain truly cannot process something as wondrous as you, and your brilliance is brighter than anything Diavolo will ever be able to comprehend.

_A goddess I must slay,_ the demon adds in shame, extending a hand up to cup your face as you work, caressing your jaw from this new angle.

"What is it, darling?" You murmur, never taking your eyes off Diavolo's hair as you address him. "Am I hurting you?"

You pause your work, withdrawing the shark tooth comb to massage his scalp a bit.

"No, not at all." Diavolo smiles. "Just thinking about how much I'd like to kiss you."

_And how, one day, I will be unable to._

You laugh at that, a rich melody spilling from your lips that Diavolo wishes he could bottle in a jar, but it builds in your throat and bursts like a firework, gracing the air with its presence as every animal pauses to bask in the sound.

"You're so silly, do you know that?" You don't wait to lean forward, kissing Diavolo upside down on the lips before another giggle escapes you.

You're about to pull away, then. About to withdraw, about to return to toying with the demon's hair until it finally takes the shape you're envisioning. But before you can so much as lift your upper body, Diavolo's arms have shot up to grip your waist, making use of the full scope of his strength to lift you off the ground and flip you atop him, ignoring your undignified screech upon being thrust into the air.

"Rule four," Diavolo mumbles into your ear, snaking an arm around your waist as he traps you in the same inescapable grip you've held _him_ in so many times before. "Never let your opponent catch you off-guard."

The demon smirks.

"That's in _combat,_ you absolute buffoon," You mumble, swatting Diavolo's hands in an attempt to get him to let go. Of course, the demon ignores you entirely, rolling you onto your side to nuzzle your neck, peppering the skin there with kisses.

As usual, you can only pretend to resist him for so long before you relax in his arms, grumbling quietly about his hair.

"You can work on my hair later, love," Diavolo mumbles, breathing in your scent deeply, wishing he could mark you with his own.

"You've been saying that for the past month, Diavolo," You chide. "That's how it got so tangled in the first place."

But the demon ignores your words entirely, grinning as he continues to kiss up and down your body until the only sounds that leave your mouth are gasps of quiet contentment. "Diavolo," You mumble when his hands slip beneath your robe, his skin finding your bare shoulder now that it's no longer hidden by silk.

"D-Diavolo," You repeat when he pulls your robe down just the slightest, savoring the softness of your skin. Indeed, it's softer than any fabric he's ever touched, smoother and sweeter, and he just wants to go a _little_ lower to see if—"Diavolo," You gasp, stiffening in his hold as you grab the robe he had been slipping down your shoulder.

"What?" The demon asks in alarm, eyes wide. You've never looked so _uncomfortable_ in his hold. "Darling?" He asks, leaning back. "Was this not okay? Fu—I mean, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No," You mumble, eyes still not fully set on the demon. Diavolo follows your concerned gaze, his eyebrows furrowing when he doesn't see anything. But then he studies the ground a little more and his eyes fall upon what has you frozen so uncomfortably, and the demon _groans_ as you try to explain _._

"There's a baby squirrel watching us."

* * *

You feel kind of bad.

You didn't _mean_ to let that undead squirrel cockblock Diavolo earlier, but it felt so _unnatural_ to do anything intimate with such youthful eyes watching. Of course, your lover had wasted no time in chasing the chipmunk away, but when he returned, the mood was completely lost, and you could only giggle while Diavolo scowled in annoyance, reluctantly letting you comb through the rest of his hair.

"Don't pout," You mumble, threading your hands through the red, watching your fingers disappear and reappear. You're quite proud of your work, given that Diavolo's hair looked worse than a stray dog's in the morning, and it's hard to stop savoring the fruits of your three-hour-long labor. "My mother used to say that if you frown like that, your face will get stuck that way."

"Was your mother also the one who taught you to be prim and proper around _baby squirrels?"_ Diavolo practically hisses, and then you've descended into another fit of laughter while the demon continues to pout.

Ordinarily, you wouldn't mind jumping onto his lap and kissing him into oblivion, until he's so blissed out that the demon has no choice _but_ to finish what you started so that you can fuck each other into oblivion like the demons you are. But the sight of those oh so _innocent_ animal eyes lingers with you, and the most intimate thing you can do is press a peck to Diavolo's cheek before tugging him to his feet, where you stand in front of him with pride.

"I know what will make you feel better," You declare confidently, hands on your hips.

"Killing that baby squirrel? Yeah, I'd do it too, if I could catch the bastard."

"No," You mumble, rolling your eyes playfully. You square Diavolo's shoulders, pushing his fists to his chest before you take your own stance four feet away. "Combat." You grin. "Fight your frustrations out."

The usual phrase is to _fuck_ your frustrations out, but you've never had a problem with making exceptions for Diavolo.

"Really?" The demon groans, arching an eyebrow. "I _know_ this is part of your plan to train me for the next cage fighting season, don't think that I—"

"Oh, hush," You cut him off, frowning. It takes little effort for you to pretend to be offended. Of course, he's absolutely right with that guess, but you're not going to let him realize that until you've weaseled him into the actual season competition. "Physical activity is known to be one of the best methods for relieving frustration," You inform the demon, beginning to circle him. "And it's said that the more frustrations you're harboring, the better your performance will be."

"I can think of a much better physical activity to relieve stress than this," Diavolo mutters under his breath, adopting his own fighting stance.

"What's that?" You ask, wanting the demon to repeat himself.

"N-nothing," Diavolo mumbles, his ears turning red.

_How cute._

You waste no time on straying on the thought, though. It takes all of four seconds for you to throw the first punch.

And then the fight has begun.

Diavolo's progress as a student has been _impressive_ , to say the least. He's successfully followed your every instruction perfectly, and the once awkward, heavy-footed man has become nearly as adept and mobile as _you_. If anything, his overall power is now probably more than your own, given that his hulking frame allows him to pack more power in a single punch than you can ever hope to achieve without using magic, and now that his injuries have fully healed, there's nothing hindering his full potential.

It's out of sheer willpower that you've managed to retain your winning streak thus far.

Your eyes are impossibly alert as Diavolo dodges every arm, knee, elbow you try to hit him with. Your technique is simple: keep the overwhelmingly strong demon on defense until you break through his shield, and never allow him to use any of that explosive strength.

Except that your technique usually needs to change halfway through every fight.

It takes Diavolo less time than usual to turn the tables on you—a testimony to how irate he truly must have already been—and then _you're_ the one defending, ducking and diving to avoid his every assault.

It's pure luck that the two of you happen to be sparring _here_ , of all places. You noticed the way the grounds on this cliffside literally morph to your aid, the grass twisting to prevent you from ever stumbling and tree roots magically appearing whenever you need something to bounce off of. Initially, you assumed that the ground here was equally resourceful to Diavolo, but weeks upon weeks of sparring has taught you that you're the only one with the upper hand. And thank goodness for that—because if you and Diavolo were to spar in front of the Temple of the Grim Reaper, where the two of you are evenly matched with nothing to weigh the odds in your favor, you _know_ you'd lose to the demon.

And someone being stronger than _you_ is a feat that not even the current Victor can claim—the very reason you want Diavolo to enter the cage fights so badly.

You spring backward when Diavolo attempts to punch you in the chest, knowing that a single hit will knock you out if you face it head-on. Defending his kicks are a little easier, given that you can use your own legs to hold him back, but the days where the two of you would spar and you'd end the fight without Diavolo ever landing a hit on you are over. Now, you have to block each kick manually, nearly every attack too well-placed for you to successfully dodge.

The fight lasts a long time. Your bodies dance back and forth over the whole field, occasionally crossing into the swamp as you continue to attack and evade, hit and jump, dive and deflect.

As usual, you both steer clear of the cliffside, the sharp drop too large for either of you to ever risk falling into—but today, the fight seems to carry more weight. This one is longer, perhaps longer than any of them have ever been. And you're certain that Diavolo is beginning to realize that he just _might_ be able to beat you.

You dart back as he throws another kick your way, hesitating briefly when you realize that you can't see the cliffside anywhere. You glance right as Diavolo punches, left when he thrusts an uppercut your way, and forward again as he tries to grab your throat—and only _then_ do you realize that the cliffside must be behind you, and that the swamp is far too distant for you to have much space between the steep drop and your own current position.

You nearly stumble forward when Diavolo tries to grab your leg, momentarily fearful that you'll back off the side of the cliff, but then the abrupt realization that the demon is still fighting and kicking convinces you that you _must_ be a suitable distance away from the drop, and you take another step backward.

What a terrible mistake.

There's a moment where you're awkwardly balanced on air, one leg holding you up while the other searches desperately for footing, and you and Diavolo exchange a look of pure fear.

And then you're falling.

Diavolo reacts quicker than you've ever seen him move, scrambling forward to grab your wrist, reaching for the right, fingers drawing closer and closer. You reach your hand out in a gesture of desperation, trying oh so _desperately_ to grab his hand—but the demon switches gears completely and dives forward to reach your left hand, his finger wrapping around your weaker wrist before throwing your body over the cliffside, never letting go even as you fly over the cliffside and land back on the ground, where the demon traps you underneath his own frame.

You blink, abruptly unsure of how the demon managed to turn the tables so quickly when usually you would have been able to squirm out of his hold.

And a memory surfaces in your mind.

_"Do you know what they say?" You continued, rambling on despite knowing that the demon didn't particularly care. "Sometimes, when you get injured, your body is even stronger when it heals back!"_

_"I'm sure," Diavolo said drily, sarcasm laced so thickly into his voice that there was no doubt he didn't believe your words._

_"It's true!" You protested, pausing in wrapping his forearm in gauze to show the demon your wrist. "Look, can't you see the scar? I injured my wrist there a few centuries ago. And I thought it would trouble me for the rest of my life, but it healed wonderfully under the same herbs and treatments I'm giving you. And now, my right wrist is miles stronger than my left, even though my left is the one that's never been injured!"_

Your eyes widen when you realize that the demon actually _remembers_ your words from back then.

Within seconds, he's got one hand wrapped around your throat and the other continues to grip your left wrist, your stronger hand held under Diavolo's foot, which presses down insistently as you struggle.

"No way," You mumble, writhing once more in an attempt to escape his hold. But you've taught Diavolo well— _too_ well—and his grip is unrelenting.

"Goddammit!" You shout in frustration, the fight filtering out of your body when you see how powerless you are in this position. "You—you cheated! That wasn't fair! You didn't fight honorably!"

But the underlying message is clear.

You _lost._

The demon holds you for a second longer, the triumphant (and slightly awed) grin on his face almost melting your inner frustration at losing, but then he lets go, and his smile is so big and _happy_ that you can't be even a little upset when he wraps you in a hug.

"I did it!" The demon shouts into your ear, and you flinch away at the noise. "I actually did it! I beat you!"

"You cheated," You mumble under your breath, looking away in mild embarrassment as the demon continues to celebrate.

"Maybe," Diavolo comments, eyes twinkling. "But you told me that everything's fair on the battlefield, and the fact remains that I won, and you _lost_."

"Yeah, yeah," You mumble, scowling. "Just rub it in, why don't you? And what would you have done if your little plan _hadn't_ worked? Would you have just watched me fall off that cliff?"

"No," Diavolo says innocently, smiling. "I would have jumped off with you!"

Cue a firm smack on the back of the head.

Diavolo continues smiling, though, his mood completely lifted now that he's won a fight against you for the first time.

"Hey, hey," He mumbles, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder. "Aren't you proud of me?" He asks. "Tell me how proud you are, darling," He kisses your neck. "Isn't it such a _turn on_ that I'm stronger than you?"

"Yeah," You mutter under your breath, scowling. "You cheated. Very sexy."

But Diavolo pays you no heed, only continuing to kiss every inch of skin that's exposed, his tongue darting out to push your robe down.

"Diavolo," You warn, opening an eye to glance around in case there are any more baby squirrels watching. But when you find none, you relax a little more, leaning against the demon as he makes his way up to your ear, leaving a long, wet kiss against the shell.

"I can't stay too long," You mumble, though your words sound more like moans. "I have to...something...home..." You close your eyes fully when you feel teeth scrape your neck, too occupied with savoring the feeling of _Diavolo_ to bother coming up with any of your terrible lies.

"Yeah right," The demon mumbles, his hand settling over your waist. "If you were actually going to leave, you would have left half an hour ago."

Your eyes snap open at that.

"What?" You flinch, instinctively glancing up at the moon. And, sure enough, it's position in the sky is much further along than where it usually is when you leave, and alarms begin blaring in your head. "Oh no," You mumble, gripping Diavolo's hand. "I'm so sorry, Diavolo, but I really do have to—"

"It's okay."

Diavolo smiles at you, a sweet and charming grin that melts your heart. "Go ahead, darling, and I'll be here when you come back at night."

"You don't want to return to the Temple of the Grim Reaper?" You ask, thinking about how much warmer the holy shelter you first brought him to is.

"Uh," Diavolo shoots a skeptical glance toward the swamp you're about to pass through on your way back to the palace. "I don't really want to cross the..."

"Swamp. Right," You mumble. You see a moment of offense flare in Diavolo's eyes, as if he still isn't sure whether you _genuinely_ believe him when he claims that the swamp attacks him as he passes through it (which, to some degree you don't; but you know that it does _something_ to him based on the sounds he makes when he follows you, so you're certain there's some truth to his words) before a calmer look passes through his eyes.

"We'll talk more when you get back, alright?" Diavolo offers you a silly smile, giving you a casual wink before he blows you a kiss.

"Alright," You mumble, already planning your nightly escape for when you'll return to spend more time with him. "And Diavolo?" You call, turning back.

The demon arches an eyebrow at you, already sitting back down on the ground where he probably intends to slumber for the next few hours.

"I really am proud of you."

* * *

"Thank you for the royal silks, princess! You truly are too kind!"

"I received your fruit bouquet, miss! You have my thanks!"

"I am in your debt, my lady! The decorative candles you sent were stunning!

"Princess, princess! Thank you for the flower arrangement!"

"My sister and I loved the dresses you sent, my lady! Thank you!"

You can barely hear the sound of your own thoughts as you pass through the halls of the palace, curtsying in response to every expression of gratitude, offering as many smiles as you can to those around you. It's _impossible_ for you to properly acknowledge each of the maids and knights you delivered gifts to (and you now think that it may have been a better idea to have spread the presents out, rather than deliver them all on the same night), but you can't help the overwhelming satisfaction that fills your heart at seeing such merriment in the palace.

"Princess."

You instinctively curtsy at the knight who stands before you, assuming that he's another person who wishes to thank you for your gift—but a glance forward reveals that it's a familiar face, the very knight who's been keeping you company in the palace. When he holds his hand up, the remaining knights and maids who had been chasing after you to thank you grow silent, and you can feel the crowd disperse under his strict glare.

You toss a sheepish glance behind you, deciding that you'll properly talk to each individual person at a later date, and one-by-one rather than all at once, but a certain relief does fill your heart when you realize that they're not all clambering after you anymore.

"Thank you, Sire," You whisper to the knight in front of you, grinning. "I had not realized that my actions would cause such a stir in the palace."

"I believe I am the one who should be thanking you, princess." The knight gestures for you to walk ahead of him, as is customary for a knight and a princess, but you pull him into stride with you as you make your way to your quarters. "The painter you commissioned showed me some of his past works. I never expected that I would be painted at this young an age, and much less with a royal-caliber artist, but...you have my sincerest gratitude."

You beam at the man, not missing the faint flush on the knight's face when he sees your smile. "I'm glad you like him. He was the painter my parents commissioned to draw me when I turned of age, actually."

"Really?" The knight chokes. "You commissioned such a prestigious painter to draw a mere _knight?"_

You frown at that.

"You are not a _mere_ knight. The fact that you are a knight alone should be a source of pride, Sire." You pause, realizing that you're at the door to your private chambers. But still, you don't enter. Nor do you dismiss the knight next to you.

"Princess?" The demon questions, glancing at you nervously.

"Are you proud to serve the crown, Sire?" The question is sharp, demanding an immediate answer.

"It will be an honor when I am allowed to serve under you," The knight responds swiftly, and you can tell from the way he says the words that he means them.

"But are you proud to serve the _current_ crown?"

"Yes, princess."

But the flat inflection of the demon's voice is proof enough that the words are just that: words. They do not go deeper, they do not resonate with his heart, they do not march to the beat that he holds his weapon to. This knight may serve the crown but there is no pride there—a fact which brings a smile to your face.

"Sire," You call, urging him to face you. "Sire, I assure you that when I take the crown, I will not rule as my parents do. When the first snow falls, when the public learns the truth, when the world watches the Devildom take a new empress, there will be change everywhere."

A confident smile spreads across your face as you speak of the news your parents informed you of—the best news of your life. "When Istep to the imperial throne at the end of this year, I will make you and every other knight proud to serve the royal palace. I will bring food, water, joy, and happiness to the poverty districts. I will restore balance to the laws of magic and permit its usage among those beyond the imperial family. I will withdraw our troops from the public's homes, and I will restore knights to their proper position of being defenders of the people rather than forced oppressors."

"I..." The demon trails off. "I believe you, princess. And when you become Empress upon the first snow of this year, I will be as devoted to your cause as you are. But why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Sire," You say, a small grin finding its way onto your face. "When the day comes where I become Empress, I will need a knight of honor. A knight solely devoted to me, my safety, and my life."

"And..." The demon trails off, his eyes growing wide.

"And I want you to take that position, Sire." You smile proudly at his utterly bewildered expression, warmth filling your heart at the pure joy that surfaces in his eyes. "Would you do me the honor?"

"O-of course, princess!" The knight practically shouts, dropping to a knee and drawing his sword instantly, offering it to you.

You take it from his hands proudly, testing the weight of the steel in your own grip before laying the blade from shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, saying the honorary words you memorized so many years ago. You know you'll need to repeat this all at a ceremony later, when you truly _are_ Empress and there are witnesses, but the moment that this knight is bound to you begins _now_ —and you know he will guard you with his life, whether the bond is formalized or not.

"I will guard you with my life, princess," The knight vows solemnly, looking up at you with eyes of pure adoration. "When you take the throne this winter, as the first snow graces the Devildom skies, I will be by your side, and I will defend you from now until the end of time."

You smile softly, letting the knight complete his vow.

"As long as I live, you shall be protected. As long as my sword stands between you and an enemy, I will fight for your life. As long as my body can move, as long as my heart beats, as long as the blood in my body is warm, there will be no threat great enough to harm you. I pledge my life, heart, mind, and soul to you, princess. I will be your shield and sword, and I am yours from this moment until the end of time. I give to you my future, and with it every ounce of my strength, pride, and loyalty, such that you are protected into eternity."

"Thank you, Sire," You whisper, placing a hand on his shoulders, watching him rise. "I trust you with my life."

The demon bows, his eyes meeting yours only when you urge him to, and then you recognize an unspoken curiosity that hadn't been there before.

"Sire," You call, urging him to be candid. "There is something else on your mind, is there not? Let there be no hesitation between us. Ask your question."

"Ah, well..." The demon trails off. "I was merely wondering if you or your parents had selected an Emperor to rule with you. You need not answer my question, of course, it's merely a curiosity. A trifling matter. Trivial, really. I don't mean to imply anything at all—"

"Sire." You cut him off smoothly, raising a hand. You offer him a sympathetic smile, quietly realizing that there must have been some hope in his mind that your heart would be unclaimed. After all, it's hardly rare for a knight and a princess to rule together—what better way to combine knowledge of the battlefield and politics than to wed two people who specialize in both? Alas, the time you've spent away from the palace has given rise to some deeper feelings, and the moment the knight muttered the word _Emperor_ , only one demon's face could come to mind.

The man who nearly threw you off a cliff two hours ago.

"My heart belongs to another," You say, placing a tender hand on the knight's shoulder. "And I will introduce you to him one day. Perhaps sooner than I will introduce him to others. But..."

"I understand," The knight says, bowing his head respectfully. "I will await that day with pleasure, princess."

You nod your head, offering the demon another curtsy before you turn around to open the door to your private quarters.

But the call of your title makes you turn around.

"Princess?" The knight asks, somewhat meekly.

"Yes, Sire?"

"This...this man you speak of. The one who has claimed your heart, and whom you intend on making Emperor. He wouldn't..."

"Speak your mind, Sire." You watch with curiosity as the demon struggles to find his words, evidently choosing them carefully.

"He wouldn't...hurt you, would he?"

_Diavolo?_ You wonder. _Hurt me?_ The very thought makes you laugh—why, the demon can hardly land a punch on you during training without gasping and checking to see if your alright, the very notion of him ever injuring you brings an amused smile to your face.

"No, Sire. He would never hurt me," You declare confidently, smiling.

And as the two of you part, as you enter your private chambers and settle down, you've never been more certain of anything in your whole life.

* * *

Diavolo waits with an utterly unreadable expression on his face.

He's not waiting for you to return—though he knows, based on the location of the moon, that you should be approaching the cliffside sometime soon.

No, he's waiting for his father.

The elder demon has been increasing his visits to Diavolo's mind as of late, repeatedly checking in on his son to ensure that the future prince has not been growing too smitten with you to be of use to the Resistance. Ordinarily, Diavolo wouldn't care for his father's visits much—in fact, he actively dreads them, since he finds himself constantly being reminded of what he will eventually have to do to you—but yesterday, the elder demon had said there would be a surprise for Diavolo the next day.

And as old as Diavolo is, he's always enjoyed a good surprise.

But still, the expression on his face is something that no one would be able to read.

Not even himself.

His face is torn between a wistful blankness and an angry scorn, an odd combination of the two which has scared off most of the local animals. All his thoughts are focused on the situation at hand.

Namely, _you._

**_Well, you certainly seem to be having a difficult time over there._ **

Diavolo flinches when the buzz of magic washes through his body, but this feeling is different. The magic has a different quality to it, not oppressive and heavy but instead light and...it vaguely reminds him of tea?

Diavolo shakes his head, his mouth hanging ajar when he registers _who_ that voice belongs to—a voice he hasn't heard in all too long.

"No way," The demon murmurs, eyes wide.

**_Ah, so you can hear me. I was worried that I was performing the spell incorrectly, but it appears I succeeded._ **

"Barbatos!" Diavolo practically shouts, jumping up. He's abruptly overcome by an overwhelming urge to hug his friend, but, well, the magic is nothing but telepathy, and the green-eyed demon is nowhere to be found.

**_Lower your voice, my lord. This connection goes two-ways, and you're practically shouting into my head right now._ **

"You never told me you were learning magic!" Diavolo exclaims, entirely shocked. "And how many times have I told you not to call me your lord? We haven't even taken the palace yet!"

A low chuckle fills Diavolo's ears, but for once, the demon doesn't tense at the sound. It's not abrasive and ominous, like his father's. No, the sound of Barbatos on the other line is nothing but _comforting_ , and it gives Diavolo a strange sense of relief.

**_Your father taught me. And please, my lord, you don't need to be humble. You and I both know that as long as you complete your task with the princess, Rebellion will succeed no matter what._ **

"Oh," Diavolo mumbles, voice flat. "So, is that it? Father sent you to make sure that I'm not stepping out of line with the princess? So that I don't betray the Resistance? Well, you can tell him that—"

**Actually, my lord, my decision to speak with you was of my own volition.**

Diavolo is silent.

**_I thought...that you might need a friend to talk to._ **

Diavolo's shoulders slump. "How much do you know?" He asks wearily, eyes drooping as he flops to the ground. Barbatos is absolutely right, of course—the demon has never needed a friend more than in this moment—but Diavolo needs to understand _how much_ of the truth the demon already knows.

**_In truth? Roughly everything. Your father asked me to check on you using my powers, so I've observed up until the present for this timeline._ **

_"Roughly_ everything?" Diavolo asks, ears perking up. "What haven't you seen?"

**_Ah, well._** Barbatos is uncomfortably silent for a second. **_I tend to skip ahead whenever I see you and the princess growing intimate in my visions._**

"Wha—" Diavolo chokes on his words, a furious flush painting his cheeks. "The princess and I have never _been_ intimate, Barbatos. We've never had sex!"

**_I'm sure, my lord._ **

"Believe me!"

**_I do, my lord._ **

Diavolo groans. But he can tell from the playful inflection of his friend's voice that the demon _is_ just teasing, in his own special way. And after being gone for so long, Diavolo realizes that he's missed it.

"So..." The demon trails off, his voice growing serious. "If you've seen all that, you know my issue, then. You know that I..." Diavolo swallows, abruptly realizing the words that he's never even admitted to himself yet.

"I love her," He murmurs with a strange wistfulness.

**_Yes,_** Barbatos says. **_I've seen you. And you should know, my lord; she is equally infatuated with you._**

"Bet all that infatuation will disappear when she watches me kill her family in front of her, right?" Diavolo's voice is dry, and the humor to his joke falls on deaf ears. "Tell me, Barbatos, is there any reality where Rebellion succeeds, and I don't have to watch her die?"

Barbatos's silence is a bigger answer than his words.

"I thought so."

**_Diavolo..._ **

Barbatos trails off, unsure of how to help the demon. Even the honorific is dropped, and abruptly, the conversation switches from servant and master to just two friends talking, one about to get their heart ripped to shreds.

**_If it helps, she doesn't hate you in all the timelines._ **

"She doesn't?"

**_Sometimes...sometimes, if you explain things to her, she understands. But you have to make her understand. She... it's going to be hard to explain to her why she cannot live, why people will only fear her no matter how good a ruler she tries to be. After all, there is a reason why she is the key to Rebellion. And if you can make her see why, then maybe, just maybe, she might..._ **

"She might willingly let me execute her in front of the masses?" The demon leans back on the ground, frowning. He's not sure if that situation is better or worse than you actively hating him.

**_She won't be willing. But...she won't hate you, either._ **

"And is this timeline one of those instances?" Diavolo's fingers dig into the grass, hopeful.

**_That depends on you, Diavolo. But the princess is a good person on the side of evil. And she can never change that—the masses will always know and recognize her as the tyrants' daughter. There can be no peace for the world until every member of the royal family is erased from existence._ **

"Barbatos," Diavolo mumbles under his breath.

**_Yes?_ **

"If the princess is a good person on the wrong side, then what am I?" Diavolo looks up at the sky, oddly enough, like he's asking God for the answer instead of his old friend. "How can I call myself..."

**_You are a good person, Diavolo. The fact that you are so torn up over this decision is proof of that very fact._ **

"Does a good person kill another good person?" Diavolo asks. "Is that the world that we're fighting for? How can we have good people on the side of evil if there are no evil people on the side of good?"

**_Do you want to know the truth, Diavolo?_ **

"Only if it's coming from you, Barbatos."

**_Your father._ **

"Huh?" The demon asks, raising his eyebrows in confusion. "What about my father?"

**_Your father is the man you are looking for: an evil person who was born on the side of good. Either your father will have you kill the princess, or to save your princess, you must kill your father—but you know what you must do. No matter what, should you choose to defend the princess, you are defending a good person. But the moment you choose her, you are siding with evil. And as soon as you do that, your father will not hesitate to wipe you out with the princess. And when that happens, he will be the sole inheritor of the Devildom, and our kingdom will be ruled for eternity by an evil man._ **

"You're really giving me no choice here, Barbatos," Diavolo mumbles under his breath.

**_Because you are too honorable a man for this to be an issue of choice, Diavolo. Your father will be the demon king, no matter what. It is only a question of whether you will be there to succeed him—whether you will be able to be the final inheritor of the Devildom. And if you are not, then this world really is doomed._ **

And there it is.

The overwhelming truth.

The god awful realization that holds Diavolo in place.

He is the only barrier between an eternity of torment for the Devildom and an eternity of peace. He is the difference between the Devildom remaining the Devildom or it becoming true _Hell._ Under his father, the people may suffer just as poorly as they are under the current tyrants—but under _Diavolo_ , they will be free.

And the price for an eternity of freedom?

_You._

One life against an infinite amount of others.

One life against an endless amount of happiness.

One life against an eternity of peace, prosperity, and bliss.

One life to save the realm.

The question plaguing Diavolo's mind was never a question; there was only ever one answer. One choice. One option for the demon who has a heart too good for those around him.

"So, what do you suggest I do?" Diavolo asks drily, staring up at the midnight sky. "How can I look the princess in the eye and hold her close when I know I'll be her end? How can I do anything at all without hurting her in some way?"

**_Have you ever heard of living in the moment, my lord?_ **

Diavolo's lips curve upward, recalling your words to him from just one month ago as you demanded so breathily that he abandon his reservations and kiss you.

"I have, Barbatos."

**_Then you know what to do._ **

And for the first time, Diavolo truly does. Even if he hates it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 6.5k
> 
> Notes: Here's a list of a few other original titles I went through ^^ The Tragedy of Julius Caesar / The Tragedy of Diavolo / The Price of Power / Hellfire Sings / Masses Have Mercy / Beauty and the Beast / We All Fall Down / The Ultimate Sacrifice / And I Wait / - Each title carried different meanings, but my favorite was the Tragedy of Julius Caesar. I'll explain this in chapter 7 :D
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Next Update: 9/02/20
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	6. 30 Days Before Rebellion

People say that acceptance is the final step to any turmoil. That when you stop denying the obvious, everything else falls into place. That when you come to terms with the truth, things suddenly become easier.

Diavolo would be lying if he said he hadn't been hoping there was merit to those words. He was hoping, praying, nearly _begging_ for this oppressive weight of guilt to go away, for him to be able to enjoy what little time he has left with you.

But Diavolo feels nothing but pain when he holds you in his arms, quietly whispering into your ear that he'll enter into this season's cage fights.

It's for the good of Rebellion, he knows. The moment he fights and wins—and he's now confident he will—the whole Resistance will be nearly twice as strong, with every fighter bowing down to their Victor, to their Resistance Leader, to their prince.

But the fact that he's taking _your_ training to advance the Resistance drops a sick feeling in his gut, like a knife has been twisted and it will now remain as such forever.

"Finally!" You exclaim, your face brightening up the second you hear his words. You waste no time in darting ahead and jumping into his arms, Diavolo's body momentarily staggering under your weight, before you shower his face in butterfly kisses.

"I thought you were never going to come around!" You exclaim, your eyes radiating a happiness so bright that it seems to cut through the perpetual darkness of the Devildom.

"What can I say?" Diavolo asks, offering you a light smile. And indeed, this one isn't forced—your very _presence_ brings him joy, one so great that it sometimes seems to balance his sorrows. "You wore me down."

"We have to start training immediately," You blurt, grabbing Diavolo's hands as you tug the man to his feet.

"Already?" The demon mumbles, frowning lightly. "But I wanted to—"

"Nope." You cross your arms firmly. Not an ounce of hesitation squirms its way into your stance. "The tournament begins in a month, and if you're serious about participating, then you _have_ to win. And when you fought the Victor in the quarter-final, a lot of people were watching. Nearly everyone is going to think you're weak, especially since you were…"

"Almost killed?" Diavolo offers, a grin forming on his face. He lost his pettiness over the loss long ago, though you still seem uncomfortable bringing it up.

"Yeah. That will work in our advantage up until the semi-final, but the moment the Victor sees how you fight, he'll be on his guard. And then, in the final, you're going to need to be _extra_ —"

"Wait," Diavolo mumbles, shaking his head. "How do you that I won't have to go against the Victor in an earlier bracket? Last time, we fought in the quarter-finals. There's a good chance that'll happen again, or I might go against him in even earlier."

And suddenly, the look on your face is sheepish.

Diavolo leans back, his eyebrows furrowing in a mix of amusement and mild confusion.

"Well you see, I may have…"

"Speak up," Diavolo calls, pulling your chin up so you look at him. "I can't hear you."

You know he's lying; there's absolutely no doubt about that. You could be humming a tune to yourself one hundred feet away, and any demon's supernatural instincts would be able to isolate your voice from all background noise, focusing on it.

But even as you shoot Diavolo a glare, you do speak up, your tone hesitant as it is nervous.

"I might have signed you up for the tournament a few weeks ago," You blurt, averting your eyes as you cross your arms. "You're in the eighth block, since I signed up so late. But the Victor was in the first block, so it'll be impossible for you to face him until the end."

You keep your eyes fixated away from him, then. Probably studying whatever Purgatorian Owl is hooting around in the distance, but doing your absolute best to keep from seeing the expression on Diavolo's face.

No doubt, you think he'll be mad.

But Diavolo's heart softens the moment he sees you acting so cute, and within seconds he's laughing and pulling you closer, the rich sound booming from his lips so melodiously that even you crack a smile.

"You aren't upset?" You mumble, pulling back. "I did sign you up without your permission, you know."

"I know," Diavolo responds, shooting you a lazy grin. "But it's impossible for me to be mad at you."

You beam at that, your hesitant smile turning into a real one as you jump out of Diavolo's arms and urge him to take his combat stance, raising your own fists as you begin circling him.

The demon's eyes widen instantly, quietly thinking: _Oh, we're going to start training already?_ But before he can think another word, you've swung your fist at him, and then the two of you have fallen into the familiar rhythm of fight.

The wind quiets as it settles down to watch the two of you, quick-footed animals and skeletal creatures alike darting around to get the best view without placing themselves in the danger zone. The spirits in this region have grown used to seeing Diavolo and you fight, and even they seem to pause in their eternal whispering such that there's nothing but Diavolo, you, and the pulse of the Devildom ground which springs to your aid whenever you need it.

Diavolo curses inwardly at that, groaning when he notes how the grass that stands so stubbornly against his own feet propels you forward like a spring, and it's like the demon has two enemies as he trains: you, and the ground that fights him as viciously as the swamp. Still, the redhead knows better than to complain, and he remains silent as he darts back to avoid one of your kicks, ducking sharply when you jump to throw him a punch.

It takes nearly a full hour for Diavolo to turn the tables on you.

He finds his opening when you put too much power into an uppercut, the momentum of the movement holding you back as Diavolo takes the opportunity to begin his own offensive, and then you're playing defense—and the cycle begins all over again, only the roles are reversed.

Indeed, Diavolo can finally say that he's your equal in combat. You seem to have some notion that he might be better, but the demon has to use every fiber of his being to battle you. Every sense is sharpened, all his demonic instincts amplified to their full potential. He can hear the sound of your breathing, uneven and unsteady but always in line with your movements. He can taste your lingering aura in the air as he pushes you backward and steps where you once were. He can smell the delicious scent of _you,_ like a perfume he can never get enough of, an aroma that stirs something in him so deeply that it practically turns him feral as the feeling of _you_ envelops him and brings out something primal, something demonic.

It's not adrenaline that beats Diavolo's heart faster as he swiftly traps you against the ground with a deftness he didn't know he had. No, it's raw _exhilaration_ that he feels, thrilling as it is intoxicating, and you've barely accepted your defeat before Diavolo's lips are on yours, pressing deeper and deeper until he's certain there's no space left between your bodies.

He isn't sure when he breathes, he isn't sure how he breathes, he isn't sure if he even _does_ breathe because all he can think of is you, his every sense augmented from the fight such that the stimulation of actually touching you, holding you, kissing you is more than his mind can comprehend.

Diavolo groans against your lips, a needy sound that single-handedly tells you of his desire for more.

You respond in full, equally exhilarated from the battle as you tug Diavolo's hair, pulling on the strands of red so sharply that it makes him gasp—and then your tongue is inside his mouth, and it really does feel like you're all his body knows.

There's only one place this moment can go, only one place _for_ this moment to go. And based on the way you're sucking on his tongue, you want it too.

But life seems to hate the two of you.

And when the two of you hear the sound of six bells ringing in the distance, everything comes to a stop.

"Damn it," Diavolo mumbles under his breath, instantly pulling back to rest his forehead on yours.

You laugh lightly, but the way you cling to his arms tells him that you're just as frustrated as he is. "I have to…" You mumble, reluctantly pulling yourself out of his embrace to dust grass off your robes.

"Yeah," Diavolo mumbles, leaning back on his arms as he watches you prepare to leave, knowing all too well that you're already going to need to run if you want to make it back to the palace in time for dinner.

"I'll see you at night?" You ask, trying to make sure that there aren't any twigs in your hair.

"Of course." Diavolo leans forward to pull your hand closer, bringing it to his lips. "And perhaps we can continue where we left off?"

"I wouldn't want it any other way," You mumble, lowering your head to pull Diavolo into a chaste kiss. It hardly lasts a second, and you're pulling away before either of you can grow too tempted to forget everything and remain with each other, but Diavolo doesn't mind. After all, he knows he'll get to see you within six hours, so he won't complain.

He watches you leave with a soft smile on his face, noting how you walk with a natural elegance that mesmerizes him. A few of the undead chipmunks follow you as you go, enchanted by the ripple of your robe as moonlight bounces off of it, but Diavolo remains in place, watching how the swamp seems to open its arms to you as you step inside, ushering you along with a gentle hand as you venture into its depths.

For a moment, all is quiet.

And then Diavolo senses a familiar buzz approaching, and he sighs.

Diavolo hears the ghost of magic before he feels it, the sensation settling into his ear with such ease that the demon barely flinches when it takes root inside his body.

**_My lord._ **

"Barbatos," Diavolo greets. He leans back down onto the grass, studying the moon as his friend's voice fills his ears.

**_Your father found your name on the list of cage fighters for the next season. Have you returned to your purpose within the Resistance?_ **

"I never abandoned my purpose in the Resistance," Diavolo retorts, but Barbatos's unimpressed silence proves that he knows more than he lets on. "I just...lost focus of it for a bit, that's all."

**_No matter. Your father does not doubt your loyalty, I have made sure of that. However, my lord, your performance for this season will dictate much of Rebellion. Your failure in the last season will have severe repercussions should you lose a second time. The people will not bow to a prince if there are those stronger than him. And the current Victor is wholly unworthy of leading the Devildom._ **

"Do not fret, Barbatos. I'm... I'm stronger now."

**_I do not doubt that you think you are. But should you fail a second time—_ **

"I _won't,"_ Diavolo practically hisses, frustration building up at Barbatos's lack of confidence in him. His scowl deepens when he realizes how childish he sounds, but he continues regardless. "I've been training. The princess has been training me, in fact. If we're not talking, we're fighting, and I know I've come a long way."

**_The princess has been training you?_ **

"Yes, why do you—"

_Oh._

A sick feeling takes root in Diavolo's stomach when he realizes his words, realizes that Barbatos now knows.

"Please do not tell anyone," The demon mumbles, eyes downcast. "Not even Father."

**_There is no shame in manipulating an enemy, my lord._ **

"Don't be daft, Barbatos. You know as well as I do that I will never see the princess as my enemy."

And then there is silence once more, and a cool wind rushes against Diavolo's face, calming his heart which he only now realizes has accelerated.

Barbatos remains silent for a long time—a rarity, given that the man almost always knows what to say. But it seems that even the master of time has no idea how to comfort Diavolo in his time of need, not when his actions are so despicable.

**_You…_ **

Barbatos trails off, another rarity.

**_You are making the right choice, my lord. The Devildom will thank you for all eternity._ **

But the laugh that leaves Diavolo's lips is lifeless, devoid of the happiness that had rung out so merrily when he was sitting here with you not twenty minutes ago. "Don't patronize me, Barbatos. I never had any choice to begin with."

**_You have decisions yet, my lord._** Diavolo can already imagine Barbatos's cryptic smile as he says the words. **_The future is not written in stone._**

But Diavolo doesn't understand what he means.

After all. There's only one way for Rebellion to proceed.

_Right?_

* * *

It is the first time the palace has been so loud.

"Do you hear them, Sire?" You ask, eyes widening as you walk through the halls that lead to your room. If you weren't wearing heels, you would be skipping with joy. "They're _talking!"_

The knight at your heels chuckles at that, a warm smile spreading across his face when he sees how bewildered you are at the quiet noise that has wrapped itself around the palace.

It's only the east wing, of course. Your parents live in the central hall and most of the generals live in the west wing, but the east wing is _all_ yours—it would be shared by your other siblings if you had any—but it is filled to the brim with the low hum of chatter, a noise that seems to spread from the very stone floors you walk on.

"I can't tell where it's coming from!" You blurt with a grin, turning your head left, then right, then forward once more.

"That's because _everyone_ is talking, princess." Your knight gestures all around you, pointing to the doors that have been left slightly ajar. "All throughout the east wing. Your efforts to make the maids and knights feel more comfortable in the palace have been successful."

But although you know the knight is right, you can still hardly believe it.

You began your initiative to convince the serving demons to talk almost three weeks ago, subtly walking in on their duties, asking questions, and leaving when a conversation had struck up. Two weeks ago, you had done the same with the knights. One week ago, you had explicitly asked everyone to talk to each other while working, claiming that it felt "cozy" to be able to hear those around you and know that you weren't alone in the palace.

But this feels like the first time that everyone is actually holding to your request.

When you hear the sound of low laughter from afar, you genuinely worry that your smile might split your face in half.

"Do you hear them?" You ask your knight, although you know the answer. "They sound so _happy!"_

You grin as you press your ear to a wall, just listening.

"Now, now, princess." Your knight shakes his head, gesturing for you to step away. "Even for a woman of your stature, it's impolite to listen in on others' conversations."

Your ears warm at that, and you flinch away from the door.

"I—I know _that,"_ You mumble. "But isn't it just so amazing? This is what a palace is supposed to sound like, Sire! This is what the palace _will_ sound like when I take the throne at the end of the year!"

"I know, princess," You knight grins as he opens your to your chambers for you. "We all look forward to that day."

Your smile widens as you enter your room, flashing a bashful smile at the maids who—to your further joy—are already wrapped in conversation as they await your return.

"Oh!" One of them exclaims, eyes widening when they see the knight at your door. "M'lady, is he…?"

You laugh at that, shaking your head lightly.

By this point, it's no secret that you escape the palace for hours on end during the day and night to meet with a mysterious suitor. Now that the palace workers love you so, they go as far as to cover up for you whenever your parents summon for you, actively doing their best to ensure you can meet with Diavolo without repercussion.

"No," You respond, and your maid's shoulders sag for a moment as something akin to a pout comes to her face. Instinctively, she stiffens when she realizes her actions—but she grows calmer when she sees the relaxed grin on your face, and how you don't seem to mind her actions at all. "He is, however, the knight I've selected to be my knight of honor."

"Oh my!" Your other maid remarks, her eyes darting to the knight behind you. She studies his face, and you don't miss how a light blush springs to the knight's cheeks upon being scrutinized so. "I suppose this was due, seeing how the first snow grows closer with each passing day." Your two maids bow respectfully to the knight, curtseying. "'Tis a pleasure to meet you, Sir."

"And I would love to meet the two of you as well," Your knight responds, flashing your maids a smile that makes them blush. "However, we are in a hurry. The princess has been summoned by the Empress. And it would appear that the mystery man she visited ruffled up her clothes, because there's dirt all over them."

"Sire!" You exclaim, knowing all too well what he's implying.

Your maids watch you hesitantly, still unsure of how you'll react to this gesture of casualty from someone whose role is explicitly to serve you. But your knight has been by your side for long enough that he knows how you'll respond, and the smile he flashes you is nothing but impish as you laugh and tell him to close the door.

The moment he does, one of your maids is already at your closet, flitting through the clothes to select a new dress for you to wear. The other one, though, has grown a bit more confident at witnessing the relaxed exchange between you and your future knight of honor, and she speaks up.

"M'lady?"

"What is it?" You keep your tone light, making sure that she feels as comfortable as possible.

"By any chance, did you and that suitor...erm...you know...there are an awful lot of stains' round the hips, and…"

You let out another peal of laughter, relaxing completely. "Of course not," You respond, grinning as she helps you out of your robes, spritzing perfume onto your bare skin. "Shockingly enough, I got the feeling that we were about to, y'know? But then the city bell rang, and I was already late in returning to the palace, so we had to stop."

You can already see the questions in your maids' eyes as they regard you, still entirely in the dark about Diavolo, only knowing that he's someone you intend on marrying—so you humor them, telling them that they can ask you all the questions they want while dressing you.

Too interested to pass on the offer, they hesitantly accept, undoing your undergown before pulling a dress of green velvet over your shoulders, buttoning up the back with such slowness that you know they're making the most of this opportunity.

But you don't care.

All that matters is the fact that the palace workers are _finally_ growing close to you, at last trusting in you enough to believe that you won't execute them for speaking out of turn, punish them for looking you in the eye, fire them for enjoying themselves.

Your smile never fades, not as you teasingly tell your maids that the question time is over and not even when they redo your hair. It remains plastered to your face as your knight takes your arm and leads you to your mother's room, humoring you with responses every time you murmur in shock about the fact that people are _actually_ speaking—and the only time you've ever felt so happy is in the company of Diavolo.

"Are you ready, princess?" Your knight asks, gazing down at you as he waits for your command to open the door.

"Ready for what, Sire?" You respond jokingly, flashing him a grin as you nod.

But you understand the moment you step through the gates—through the east flank, and into the central wing of the palace.

The moment the door closes behind you, the comforting sound of noise—which you had grown used to, despite your awe of it—is silenced. The moment you enter the domain of your parents, your mother and father, the Empress and Emperor, you're reminded of the cold iron fist that rules, silencing all else in its wake.

But you don't let it trample the spirit that had been awakened at seeing your own palace workers so _comfortable_ while working.

Because by the first snow of this year, your coronation will come. And then even this central wing will be lit up with laughter, the first of all your other initiatives to bring happiness back to the Devildom.

* * *

Diavolo has never seen you look angrier than the moment in which you storm through the swamp, abruptly entering the field.

For once, the natural grace you seem to carry everywhere with you is gone, and in its place remains a fierce viciousness, so distinct that the demon flinches as he watches you approach.

He instinctively stiffens when you draw near, and suddenly his mind is racing faster than his heart. A thousand thoughts flash through his head, all of them worse than the last.

Did she hear about the Resistance? _Did she learn who I am? Did someone tell her of my purpose here?_

Diavolo swallows thickly, already tensing. He's ready for you to hit him, for you to begin shouting obscenities at him, for you to spring forward and try to strangle him.

The last thing he expects is for you to collapse into his arms, saying absolutely nothing as your wrap your arms around him as tight as possible and bury your head in the crook of his neck, as if you're trying to hide from the world and he's the only safe place left.

"What's..." Diavolo falters for a moment, hesitating before he forces himself to relax. Bringing a hand to your hair, stroking it soothingly, he calms his voice, "What's wrong, darling?"

"Nothing," You blurt on instinct. But then you amend your statement: "I mean, everything. I mean..."

Diavolo lets you take your time to collect yourself, a shaky breath going in and out of your lungs before you finally relax in his arms, leaning your head back just a little so that he can look at you.

"My mother and I got into a fight." _The Empress?_ Diavolo's eyes furrow. "She...Something important is supposed to happen soon. Really soon. When the first snow comes, in fact. Just a few months away. But..."

"But?" Diavolo asks after you've been quiet for a long time. He makes sure his tone isn't too demanding. Curious as he is, the last thing he wants is to push you into admitting something you're not ready for.

"But my mom isn't...she isn't doing anything for it! There's supposed to be so much preparation, especially since we're going to be running out of time—but—but—"

"But she's not helping you get ready?" Diavolo offers, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You sigh, looking utterly defeated.

"Yeah. There's...There's so much to do. And she keeps postponing it, saying it'll happen later. But I never know when later is going to come! And—"

"Shhh," Diavolo cuts you off, pulling you into another hug before you can get too worked up. "Don't think about it, darling. Sometimes, if there's nothing you can do, there's nothing you can do."

"That's a terrible life philosophy," You mumble into Diavolo's shoulder. But he only chuckles in response.

"Sometimes, it's all you can do," The demon mumbles as he pulls you even closer. He wraps his arms around your waist and continues to run his fingers through your hair, relaxing completely when you lean your head back on his shoulder.

From there on, Diavolo can practically feel the anger as it slowly dissipates from your body. Every now and then, your grip on his shoulders tightens and the demon tenses, waiting for you to open your mouth and begin ranting again, but you keep yourself calm until the frustrations have left your body completely. By then, Diavolo is softly rocking your body to the tune of the wind, almost falling asleep until you finally pull back.

"Thank you," You mumble after a moment of silence, a soft smile returning to your face.

Diavolo squeezes your hand in response, a quiet _you're welcome_ that helps you further relax. For a moment, the two of you only stare at each other, the wind like background music to a beautiful moment as everything else fades to darkness—and Diavolo is about to comment on how exquisitely beautiful he finds you to be when you beat him to it.

"You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

Diavolo blinks at your words, a rush of surprise surging through his body when he realizes that you've echoed his very thoughts.

The demon grins softly, only further enchanted by you and your ways.

"If only you knew how many times I've thought that same thing about you," He responds, smiling softly before kissing you. He closes his eyes, letting his lips linger on yours, neither deepening nor withdrawing from the kiss—but you pull away after a moment.

"I'm serious, though," You mumble, lifting your hands up to play with Diavolo's hair, your fingers running through the blanket of red that covers his head, savoring its softness. "You have the eyes of a king, do you know that?"

Diavolo raises his eyebrows at that, surprised to see you discussing anything remotely imperial when you usually stay as far from the subject as possible.

"Then you have the eyes of a princess," The demon mumbles in response, grinning quietly to himself as you try to hide your evident surprise at his words.

"Not an empress?" You finally manage to ask once you've recovered from your momentary confusion.

“No,” Diavolo mumbles. “Just a princess.”

"I think I should be offended," You mumble in response, and the light pout on your lips has Diavolo wondering if you actually _have_ taken offense. "I compare you to a king, and you can't even compare me to a queen?"

"Aw, don't be like that, darling," Diavolo chuckles, intertwining your fingers in his. "I would hardly think it's a compliment to compare you to the Empress. The princess is so much better, wouldn't you agree? The princess hasn't executed over four million demons on a whim now, has she?"

You remain quiet for a moment at that, and Diavolo wonders if he's crossed a line. He knows that you probably think he's speaking casually, that he just _happens_ to be insulting your mother—but his words are purposeful. Poised. They're meant to be spiteful because there's nothing Diavolo can say about the Empress without it being an insult.

But after a long moment, you relax, sighing.

"Even a princess will eventually be a queen. Or an empress, I suppose."

"I suppose you're right," Diavolo mumbles. "But to me, you look like a princess. No more, no less."

"Oh?" You ask, grinning. No doubt, you think that Diavolo's words are pure coincidence—but you play on them, climbing into his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck as you press your lips dangerously close to his.

"Would a princess do this?"

"Maybe," Diavolo responds nonchalantly, his hands finding your hips. "If she wasn't boring, she might."

"Ah," You respond, grinning. "And you'd like that?"

"No," Diavolo responds, pinching the fabric of your cloak. "I'd only like _you_ to do this to me."

The demon grins at you, eyes flashing with mischief as he pulls you in for a deep kiss, and although you flinch at the abrupt contact, you melt into the kiss after a moment.

Diavolo brings a hand to your face, cupping your jaw as his thumb brushes over your cheek, his other arm tugging you impossibly closer. He leans forward, trying to chase your lips when you pull away, but when you place a hand on his chest, he relents.

"Diavolo," You mumble. "If I was a princess, would you marry me?"

"No," The demon responds, because he can't lie to you. He won't lie to you. He'll kill you one day, and he'll betray your trust, but he won't lie to you unless it's absolutely necessary.

"But believe me, darling," He looks into your eyes, praying that you can see the sincerity of his words. Praying that you'll remember the look in his eyes when he eventually breaks your heart. "I would want to—more than anything else in the world."

Diavolo doesn't give you a chance, then, to say a word. He doesn't let you question what would stop him from marrying you; in fact, he actively tries to push the thought out of your mind with the force with which he presses his lips against yours, holding you close as he kisses you to make you forget.

"Diavolo," You mumble against his lips, but he shushes you. "Diavolo," You repeat more insistently, but you're still not pulling away, so the demon continues to worship you with his lips. But with the third repetition of his name, the demon withdraws, looking at you hesitantly.

_Please don't ask me why._

But as usual, you're on an entirely different wavelength than he is, your mind moved on from the moment.

"We…" You fiddle with the button that holds your cloak together. "We said last time that we, um, would continue where we left off." Your words sound like a question. "You meant that…"

"Yes," Diavolo blurts, not even waiting for you to say it. His eyes go wide and his fingers stiffen when he realizes that _this_ might actually happen—something he's wanted for _so_ long but has always been interrupted.

And then you take a shaky breath, shoot him a reassuring smile, and you remove the cloak around your shoulders.

Underneath, you're wearing hardly anything. A dark green underrobe to a dress you doubtlessly discarded before arriving here, in hopes that Diavolo wouldn't question where you retrieved something so expensive. But still, the silk garb that just barely covers your body is absolutely stunning, already among one of the most expensive things Diavolo has ever seen.

He touches the side of it in awe, calloused fingers brushing against cold silk that seems almost smoother than your own skin.

You shudder under his touch.

A grin spreads across Diavolo's face at seeing you so responsive, and he clasps your hand, placing it onto his own chest.

"Do you trust me, darling?" He mumbles into your ear.

"I do."

And suddenly, Diavolo is reminded of your earlier question—about marriage—and your words seem like a vow.

_I do._

He longs to say them back, to promise himself to you. To say, even if it's only for pretend, that he will be yours.

But memories of the Resistance and of Rebellion, of Barbatos's warnings and his father's words echo in his mind. And he knows that he cannot be yours forever, not in mind, not in spirit, not in soul.

So as he leans forward and your fingers slip beneath the waistline of his pants, he pushes those thoughts out of his mind. He focuses on you; on the quiet sigh you breathe into his mouth. On the way your skin feels when his hand hikes your underrobe up to your thigh. One how you shiver when his fingers brush over every inch of skin they can touch.

Diavolo quiets to savor the sound of your gasp when his fingers slip tug the robe from your shoulder, leaning back with hooded eyes to study your expression. 

It is _beautiful._

Unable to hold himself back, he presses forward and captures your lips in another kiss, grinning when he feels the way your fingers momentarily fumble from their position on his shoulder. And at that, the demon forgets everything else, leaning back onto the ground and pulling you with him.

Diavolo cannot have eternity with you, he knows.

But for this one night, he will have all of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 5.5k
> 
> Notes: Sorry for missing the update on Wednesday :\ College happened, and college is rough. On another note, we've finally reached the beginning of the end :) I just wanna say thank you to everyone who's been reading thus far ^^ This is finally coming together and words cannot express how excited I am for the next parts (oh, I decided to write an epilogue! It will be short, and it won't change the ending, but I thought you guys might want to see what will happen. The epilogue will be released on the same day as the final, literally minutes afterward - hope you enjoy!)
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Next Update: 9/09/20
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	7. 1 Day Before Rebellion

All you can think about is Diavolo.

And the overwhelming stench of blood that lingers in the air.

You swallow thickly and study the arena, gripping the edge of your bench in hopes that the action will soothe the sick feeling in your stomach.

_Have the cage fights always been this bloody?_

You toy with the question in your mind, struggling to come up with an answer. It's been nearly half a year since you last visited one of these underground rings—you've been using your free time on Diavolo instead, these past few months—and your memories are foggy. The only proper thing you remember is how savagely the Victor had assaulted Diavolo the night you met, and how this season doesn't seem to be any less violent.

"It's okay," You mumble to no one, forcing yourself to heed the words. You have to be calm. Diavolo has enough to worry about _without_ knowing that you're terrified to the core on the benches. "He's going to be okay."

But no matter how many times your mind whispers that your lover will be fine, your heart beats a different rhythm.

"And now, we have the first of our competitors for the fourth round of combat! On one side of the cage, we have the second-place semifinalist from last season's tournament! And on the other side, we have a total newbie, calling themselves the Fists of Purgatory! Let the fight _begin!"_

You wince as the two fighters start for each other, a shudder running up your spine when the unfamiliar men grab at each other's throats.

There isn't an ounce of restraint in the way their fists swing. These men are making use of sick lack of rules for these underground fights. They have nothing to hold them back, and their fists are flying wild, blood already spilling onto the floor.

They're fighting to _kill._

You shiver, gripping the bench tighter.

Diavolo told you not to come. He knew that seeing these fights wouldn't be good for you. That you're already worrying enough about how he'll fare when he inevitably goes against the Victor, and that this will do nothing but further your concerns.

At the time, you whacked him on the head and told him not to be ridiculous. You'd been sneaking out to watch cage fights for _years_ , and the violence had only unnerved you once or twice.

But now?

Every demon who gets injured takes the face of Diavolo. And when the stronger demon in the ring grabs the weaker one by the neck and bashes his head against the wall, it's Diavolo's face you imagine being brutalized.

The very thought makes everything so much worse.

"And we have a winner! In record time of just forty-two seconds, our semifinalist from last year advances to the fifth round! Check back in two hours to find out if our losing demon is truly dead, or if he's simply unconscious. And now, onto the next set of competitors—"

You tune the announcer out, standing abruptly. Diavolo defeated his opponent for this round a long time ago; he won't be fighting for another half hour, at the very least.

But a voice pulls your attention away.

"Where are you going, miss?"

Your eyes dart down to the man sitting next to you, surprised to find him looking up at you in an expression of curiosity. You can't see his face, given that his mask covers everything except his eyes, but you're positive that there's a smile on his face as he speaks.

"A-ah," You mumble, feeling caught off guard. It's rare for people to speak to each other during these fights. Most conversations happen between those who already know each other, and the rest simply wear their masks in silence, guarding their anonymity like it's the only treasure they possess. This may just be the first time someone has spoken to you from within the stands. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to disturb your view of the fighters. It's just that I was feeling rather lightheaded, so I was hoping to get some fresh air outside. If you don't mind, might I go past you?"

"I see," The demon responds, looking thoughtful. "I have no qualms with letting you past, miss, but would you entertain the notion of me joining you? These fights have been rather boring, after all, and I also would like a change in scenery."

"Of course, Sir!" You exclaim instantly, your princessly instincts taking over as you accept the man's courteous invitation. You wince a little on the inside, abruptly realizing that this might not have been the best idea, especially given the shadiness of all things and people tied to these underground cage fights—but you're confident in your strength, so if this mysterious man tries anything, you're positive that you'll be able to defend yourself.

"Let us go," The man responds with a twinkle in his eye, extending his arm to you. Without a moment's hesitation, you take it, masking all your inner reservations as the two of you walk in line until you're outdoors.

"Ahh," You whisper the moment you've stepped outside. The cool wind rushes through your body like a tidal wave, and you're overcome with the urge to rip your clay mask off to feel the breeze against your face, but you resist it. "It's _much_ more pleasant out here. Wouldn't you agree, Sir?"

"Indeed. Perhaps we ought to recommend that these cage fights be held outdoors instead. I can never sit through a full night of watching without sneaking out to the balconies at least once."

The man lets out a low chuckle, and you can't help but think that the sound is awfully similar to Diavolo's laugh. Of course, this man is nothing like your lover, his stature built smaller and leaner—but a quiet voice at the back of your mind tells you that there are more similarities between them. Perhaps the way they walk or the aura that hovers over them—but something about this man distinctly reminds you of Diavolo.

You study him from the corner of your eye.

Now that the two of you are outside, you can properly see the demon. The moon watches over the two of you, illuminating the green hair that peeks out from behind his mask, curtained just behind a bright patch of turquoise that hangs off one side of his face.

 _Lovely_ , you can't help but think.

The boldness of the green reminds you of Diavolo's own fiery reds.

"What brings you to these cage fights, Sir?" You try to start a conversation, breaking the silence of the night.

"Boredom, I suppose. Though on occasion, it is duty that calls." The man muses. "I often tell myself that I come to watch the fighters fight. The tides of the realm are ever-changing, and it's crucial for us commonfolk to know where the power lies in the underground. Other times, I come on the orders of the man I owe fealty to. He enjoys learning about new combat techniques."

"And tonight?" You keep your tone light, almost teasing.

"I'm here to visit a friend and an enemy."

The demon doesn't say anything after that.

"I see," You murmur, bringing a hand to your face, pushing your mask further up so that it doesn't impair your vision. "I hope happiness finds your friend and that vengeance is delivered for your enemy. May the lords of Hell see your wishes true."

"Thank you, miss." The demon takes another step forward, bringing you both so close to the balcony that the loose fabric of your commoner's robe touches it. "And what brings you here? You do not seem the type to view violence for the entertainment of it."

A light laugh leaves your throat at that, awkward at the realization that this man saw how unnerved you were. It's wholly unbefitting of a demon to flinch at the sight of blood—but you couldn't help yourself. The very _thought_ of Diavolo being hurt sends a chill down your spine.

"I'm also here for a friend. In case he gets hurt."

"I see. Do you worry that he will be defeated?"

"Oh no. Not at all. If I'm being perfectly candid, Sir, I'm quite confident that he'll make it to the finals. It's simply that I fear he may get injured in the process. I spent a rather long time healing him before, you see, so I'd rather not have him get hurt again."

"A noble sentiment. You must be a healer, then." The demon's words are even, and you abruptly realize your mistake.

"Y-yes," You mumble instantly, hoping that he won't press on the subject. Only royalty has access to medicines and most healing products; nearly all healers have been driven out of business by your family's laws. If the man asks a single question, you know all too well that your lying skills will be no defense.

You draw your hands into fists as subtly as you can, already preparing to knock him out.

"If I know your profession, I suppose it's only fair that you know mine." You blink as the man skips over your words entirely, not a single word of doubt crossing his lips.

"Which is?" You press, eager to move on from the topic of your own supposed occupation.

"A butler."

You blink.

"A butler?" You ask, trying to confirm what you heard.

"A butler."

You nod your head slowly, forcing yourself to process the words. _A butler_ , you think, squinting at the demon from the corner of your eye. Only the royal palace and the highest-ranking nobles have butlers—nearly all commoners are either too poor or too oppressed to have any—but you're positive you've never seen this man in your life. Namely, you've never seen that patch of teal before, the only distinctive feature you can identify when this demon's face is hidden by his mask.

"I see," You mumble after a long time. "That's quite fascinating, Sir."

"Is it? A butler's duty is hardly anything special. I'm sure that healers are much more interesting. Especially given the condition of the medical markets. It must be quite the journey, obtaining all the materials you need for your work."

"Do you truly think so?" You laugh awkwardly, beginning to sense an edge to the butler's voice. Was it always there? "The underground markets have everything, Sir. Even those which the imperial palace has denied to the commoners."

"I did not know that, miss." The butler looks at you from behind his mask, and suddenly his deep green eyes no longer seem casual. His gaze is dark, as if he's seeing into your very soul. "Despite all my connections, I can't think of a single demon who has received any medical supplies in a millennium. You simply _must_ tell me where you're buying your goods from."

The shrewd, calculating look in the butler's eye sharpens, and now it feels like he's no longer staring into your soul but surveying its contents, analyzing every truth you have hidden away.

It sends a jolt of fear straight to your heart.

"I'm getting rather cold, Sir," You deflect, hoping that your nervousness doesn't seep into your voice. You were confident before that you could defeat this man if the situation called for it, but you're beginning to have doubts now that you can feel how sturdy his grip on your arm is. "Might we go inside?"

"Of course, miss."

Abruptly, the greens of his eyes lose their scrutinous edge and fade into a softer tone.

You instinctively relax.

A voice at the back of your mind whispers that maybe it was all your imagination. Your paranoia at being found out. Your fear for Diavolo infecting all else, causing you to view everyone and everything through a lens of skepticism.

But when you glance at the butler on your right, your eyes glazing over his features once more, you're certain that you didn't imagine that cunning gaze. You may have read too deeply into his words and overanalyzed actions, but that look he gave you was real.

And it was terrifying.

"Oh my," The demon murmurs, though the surprise in his voice sounds fake. "It would appear that we missed quite a few matches."

You blink in surprise, your eyes flying to the far wall where the winners from each block are drawn up. Your eyes widen when you realize that the fifth column is almost completely filled, only the bottom bracket left without a clear winner.

The man at your side pulls you forward, walking you back to your seat, and you squint to make out the figures in the cage below.

Alas, it seems that the two of you are late even for this fight, and it's clear that the battle is over. One demon stands over the other, the standing demon's foot hovering just above the weaker's stomach in a silent threat as to what will happen if surrender isn't swift and immediate.

The demon on top presses his foot down a little further, now touching skin, and his eyes take on an intimidating glint, burning bright with the adrenaline of combat—and then the demon beneath him has raised a hand with four fingers extended in surrender, and the round is complete.

The winner withdraws immediately, stepping back as the crowd rises to their feet with the ringing of bells, everyone elated at the realization that the first night is over.

But then, the demon looks up. Up at the crowd. Up at you. And your eyes widen, because you recognize those eyes.

His mask hides his face well, and his outfit is different than anything you've ever seen. But you know that shade of red too well.

_Diavolo._

But as you watch the demon raise his fist, egged on by the cheers of the crowd, a small part of you think that this isn't quite the Diavolo you know. That this man, with such a dark glint in his eyes, is as unfamiliar to you as the butler you met outside.

You shake the thought from your mind, forcing yourself to applaud with the audience as you stand in congratulations and try not to think about the look in Diavolo's eyes.

It must have been your imagination.

* * *

Diavolo's training room stinks of sweat, blood, and grime.

The sweat is Diavolo's own—one can hardly participate in a cage fight and not expect a little perspiration.

The blood is of his enemies; not a single one has been able to land a clean hit on him, though their ichor paints his knuckles as a reminder of every punch he's delivered today, every punch _you_ taught him to deliver.

But the grime?

The grime is an entirely different story.

The grime has been in this room from the very start. The grime is a reminder, a filthy, disgraceful reminder of the overwhelming loss Diavolo suffered at the hands of the Victor in the previous season. The grime is a message from those running the cage fights that Diavolo means nothing to them, that they see no potential in him. The grime is an outright insult, not an ounce of subtlety, claiming that he doesn't even have the right to a clean room like his competitors.

In this awful, disgusting room, Diavolo hardly cares about how the towels on the floor are covered in dried blood and sweat.

No, it's the grime that disturbs him.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, yanking his shirt off and throwing it into a locker, one of the only things in this room that isn't downright filthy. At this point, he just wants to change as fast as possible and wrap you in his arms, showering you in kisses and affection.

Of course, the world never gives Diavolo what he wants.

"There you are."

The demon freezes, his eyes widening. _Impossible,_ he thinks. _There's no way..._

Diavolo turns around slowly, eyes round in disbelief as he casts a glance behind his shoulder—and sure enough, there stands the demon butler that has been by his side for so many centuries.

"Barbatos," He whispers softly, turning around.

"My lord."

The butler smiles cryptically, but Diavolo knows him well enough to see the quiet happiness that lurks in the greens, pushed far back but still not far enough.

The men stare at each other for a moment, eyes communicating everything that words cannot—and instantly, they understand each other's stories. Barbatos sees the trouble Diavolo has been facing for months on end, the struggle of love and obligation, battling each other eternally in the back of the future prince's mind. Diavolo, in turn, realizes how much his friend seems to have aged over the course of these past months, a soft sympathy settling into his eyes when he considers just how much Barbatos must have been working in preparation for Rebellion, his workload nearly doubled since Diavolo hasn't been there to help him.

The demons stare at each other for a beat longer, eyes searching for anything that might have been missed—and then the moment has passed, the spell broken. Barbatos steps forward, and Diavolo turns around fully.

"It has been too long," The redhead murmurs, leaning back against a wall.

"Indeed. But there is no time to speak, my lord."

"Oh?" Diavolo's lips curve into a frown. A bitterness settles in his heart, the abrupt realization: _Ah yes, you fool. What did you expect? Barbatos is here for one reason, and one reason alone._

"Tell me," He grunts with as much politeness as he can muster, continuing to dress. "What is so urgent that you couldn't use magic to speak with me?"

"It is not a matter of magic. I am here to fight you."

"Excuse me?"

Diavolo stares dumbly at the butler, wondering if he misheard the man. But the utterly serious look in Barbatos's eyes leaves no room for confusion, and the demon is positive that he did not misspeak.

"Barbatos, why would you ever want to—"

Diavolo can't even finish his sentence before the demon is attacking him, swift punches being thrown left, right, and center as the redhead scrambles back in defense.

"Barbatos!" He shouts, desperately scrambling around the tiny room as he evades the butler's kicks. "What are you doing?! This is madness!"

But the butler pays him no heed, only continuing to throw a flurry of attacks that Diavolo scrambles to avoid. "I order you!" He tries, eyes wide in alarm. "As your liege lord's son, I order you to _stop!"_ Yet Diavolo has no authority over the teal-haired demon, for the butler works for his father, not him, and it's hardly long before Barbatos has begun to wear the redhead down, the abrupt assault after a long night of nonstop fighting forcing Diavolo's hand.

He grunts in anger as he begins to fight back, no longer dodging Barbatos's kicks but countering them with his own, red eyes narrowing in an odd mix of fury and confusion as he begins returning attacks.

Within minutes, the two are genuinely sparring and giving it their all in the small space, Diavolo panting and shirtless as he throws what little strength he has left at the butler and Barbatos only mildly disheveled as he continues to attack.

Diavolo is practically gasping for air by the time he finally traps Barbatos against a locker, slamming the demon against it with enough force to kill, though the demon of time looks wholly unaffected by the motion. Fighting Barbatos is nothing like fighting you—you, at the very least, have the graciousness to _warn_ Diavolo before you start. And when you punch, there isn't the risk of shattering bone.

Diavolo grabs the butler by the collar and uses what little magic he knows to trap the demon in place, holding him still even as he stumbles back and collapses against the other side of the wall.

"Good," Barbatos blurts, abruptly freeing himself of Diavolo's magic. "That was very well-fought, my lord."

"What?" Diavolo snaps, and this time, he's genuinely irritated. He raises his fists in preparation to fight once more, but the butler waves him away.

"Your father wished for me to come and test the extent of your skills. Indeed, you have improved as much as you claimed to have. I assume that this was not your full strength, given that you've spent the greater majority of the night fighting other demons in cages, but you do indeed have the potential to defeat the Victor."

"You...were testing me?" Diavolo asks suspiciously, eyebrows still furrowed.

"Yes, my lord."

The redhead groans.

"Why couldn't you have just _said_ that, Barbatos?" Diavolo runs a hand through his hair, noting with frustration that it's damp with sweat once more.

"Why, that would have taken all the fun out of it, wouldn't you agree?" The butler smiles his usual cryptic smile. To anyone else, it looks ominous. Cold. Maybe even scary. But Diavolo can see the childlike amusement that curves the butler's lips upward, the man almost giddy with satisfaction after his little stunt.

"Thank you for that," Diavolo blurts sarcastically, reaching for a towel. He tries not to think about the fact that he'll have to wash up all over again.

"You're welcome, my lord. At the same time, however, we do have urgent matters to discuss." Diavolo arches an eyebrow. "The princess."

He sighs.

Whatever illusions he may have harbored about Barbatos's sudden appearance are shattered the moment those words leave the demon's lips. Hearing them from another Resistance member makes the situation feel so much more dire, so much more real.

So much more urgent.

"Say what you need to," Diavolo mumbles, keeping his eyes low.

"I met her."

Diavolo's eyes narrow.

"Barbatos, do not—"

"I did not _do_ anything to her, my lord. We merely had a conversation. A rather brief one, at that. Do not look at me like that. It was entirely unplanned. I might not have even spoken to her if she didn't appear so nervous during the cage fights."

"She was nervous?" Diavolo interrupts, eyebrows raised. You had assured him time and time again that this wouldn't be a problem, that you wouldn't be uncomfortable with watching him fight.

"She was trembling, my lord."

Diavolo clicks his tongue in aggravation. "I _told_ her it wouldn't be a good idea..."

"No matter. There were no bystanders around us when we spoke, so you do not need to worry for her safety. Though I must say, you were right about her utter inability to lie." A ghost of a smile appears on Barbatos's face. "It was almost enjoyable to watch her attempt to deceive me."

"Quiet, Barbatos," Diavolo warns sharply, though there's no real edge to his voice. He leans back, a soft smile dancing on his lips as his mind fills with pictures of you. "But what did you think of her? You must understand what I mean now, don't you? She's genuinely _good_ , Barbatos. I'm certain that if we introduce her to Father, he'll realize that she's nothing like the family she hails from, and—"

"My lord."

Barbatos shakes his head disapprovingly.

"You are beyond the age of fairy tales. There is no happy ending for this princess, no matter how much you like her."

And with those words, Diavolo completely deflates.

His shoulders drop and he turns around, quietly knowing better than to argue with the butler when he speaks these truths. But when Barbatos sees Diavolo dressing so sullenly, he's reminded not of the future prince he will one day serve but is instead brought to thoughts of the past: a time where he and Diavolo were nothing but casual friends, a time when Diavolo had the luxury to pout like this and do nothing but brood.

"She does—" Barbatos clears his throat uncomfortably, not used to speaking of people in this way. "I did not mean to invalidate your feelings, my lord. She does have a...strange sort of charm. And there is...a certain... _kindness_ , ahem, that one might find in her."

"There is, isn't there?" Diavolo pauses in buttoning his shirt to cast a wistful glance at his friend—and for a moment, Barbatos shudders, because the look that Diavolo wears as he thinks of you is pure _love._ "She's absolutely amazing in every regard. You can't _help_ but be drawn to her. No matter how you try to fight it. Which is why I truly believe that if we introduce her to Father, we—"

Barbatos cuts Diavolo off abruptly, raising a hand.

The redhead quiets instantly, already prepared for his butler to launch into another lecture about how ridiculous it is that Diavolo is even entertaining these notions in his mind—but then he sees the alarmed look in his butler's eye, and Barbatos drops his voice to a whisper.

"I must leave, my lord." Barbatos sounds panicked, rushed as he mumbles words out while glancing at the door. "But remember, Rebellion is hinged on your success in defeating the Victor. You have it in you, my lord, you simply must be prepared for—"

He's cut off in the middle of his sentence when the sound of a click rings through the room, and then Barbatos has vanished entirely, gone in the blink of an eye such that when the door to Diavolo's room opens, the demon is standing alone.

"Diavolo?" You call gently, somewhat surprised to see him staring at empty space.

The moment Diavolo hears your voice, all thoughts of Barbatos and his warnings go out the window. He grins, kicking a towel away to trap you in a hug that lifts you off your feet for a few seconds as you laugh and press a kiss to the demon's cheek.

"Why are you taking so long?" You pout, buttoning up the remainder of Diavolo's shirt. "Nearly all the other cage fighters have left for the night."

"I'm sorry, darling," Diavolo apologizes, sighing. "I got caught up. I'm ready to head out now, though."

"No worries," You mumble casually, wrapping your arm around Diavolo's as you slip his mask onto his face and open the door, gesturing dramatically with a giggle as the two of you step outside. "But I just wanted to let you know that I'm very proud of you."

"Oh?" Diavolo asks, interlacing his fingers with yours. It's a bit awkward due to the height difference between the two of you, but within moments your arms are swinging at a leisurely pace, one comfortable for you both. "You know, I think you were more scared than proud up on the bleachers."

"I was not!" You defend indignantly. "If—if you saw me shaking, it was with excitement, Diavolo! Not—not fear! I was excited!"

The demon opens his mouth to say something more, to criticize your atrocious attempt at lying or to laugh some more and lay a kiss across your forehead, but he's interrupted when another demon pops up out of seemingly nowhere.

"Ma'am!" The demon shouts, waving a bandaged arm as he's carried away by a stretcher. "Thank you so much again!"

"I am glad to have helped you, Sir," You call back, cheerful. Your mask hides your face, but Diavolo is already aware of the beaming smile you wear based on how bright your eyes shine. "I hope your injuries heal well!"

The demon shouts something back at you, too far for either you or Diavolo to understand, but you respond with a gentle wave, calling "Good luck!" to the man for good measure.

"What was that all about?" Diavolo asks once the two of you have stepped outside. "You helped him?"

"Yeah." You let out a light laugh, almost sheepish. "Right before I went to see you, I saw him on the ground. His arm was injured rather severely, but had some medical ointment with me in case you got injured, so I used it on him. That's why I was late in coming to your room. He must have wanted to thank me, since he was mostly unconscious while I patched him up."

A warm smile crosses Diavolo's face at that, the demon proud to know that his lover has such a selfless heart.

"You really are too good, do you know that?" He squeezes your hand gently, wishing that he could rip his mask off and kiss you here.

"Hush," You mumble. "You would have done the same. It's our obligation to help those who need it."

"Oh?" Diavolo's eyes are filled with teasing mirth. "Are you saying that when you first tended to my wounds, it was out of obligation?"

"Hey!" You pout, swatting Diavolo's arm. "You know it's not like that! I just..."

"You just...?" Diavolo quirks an eyebrow at you, grinning as he pulls you outside the cage fighting arena and onto the street, already heading in the direction of the Temple of the Grim Reaper.

"I just want to help everyone I can." You relax as Diavolo tenses his hold around your fingers, the demon instinctively stiffening the moment those words leave your mouth.

"I do, too," Diavolo mumbles. But he's no longer thinking of you helping that demon, but instead of everything he'll have to do to you in the name of saving the greater good.

"I know, Diavolo." You grin at him, untying your mask as you beam up at him.

For a moment, the soft, understanding light in your eyes makes it seem like you really do know.

But then Diavolo is exhaling sharply, hiding his pained expression behind his mask as he realizes that you don't. That you can't. That Barbatos was right, and your story will end in nothing but misery.

* * *

_You've never seen so much death._

_All around you, there are corpses: bodies lying on the ground, either already lost to the world or drowning in their own blood. But you don't stop to look at them. Your dress is bundled up in your fists as you sprint down the hall, racing to a secret exit that only you know about._

_The place that surrounds you seems to be the palace. Seems to be, because you're certain that the real palace isn't this dark. This ominous. This foreboding._

_You shudder as a voice calls your name, a weak "princess" escaping the lips of a palace worker you vaguely recognize the voice of. Still, though, you don't stop._

_The bodies that you've left behind in your run seem to be pulling you back. The weight of their burden falls on your shoulders as you struggle to take each step, the secret exit to the palace so close but so far away._

_You reach a hand out, trying desperately to grab at a corner of the wall. To yank your body forward and pull your way to safety, to a place free of all this bloodshed._

_But your fingers only touch air, and you're left struggling to move forward once more._

_You fight your way forward, a garbled gasp leaving your lips as you struggle past a room—but you make the mistake of looking inside._

_And there you see it._

_Him._

_Diavolo._

_He's sitting in the throne room, though you can't come up with a single reason why he's here. You can only see the vague outline of his body, but you've spent too many hours running your fingers through his hair to miss the distinctive shape that the tresses take._

_You halt in your run, your arm abruptly reaching for the man you love._

_"Diavolo!" You shout, hoping that he'll come forward. That his silhouette will turn clear. That he'll save you from this dark, violent dream._

_You call his name again, the word forcing its way past your lips despite the difficulty it takes to say it, but then it doesn't even matter because you're screaming for him, and you're desperately wondering why he isn't moving. Why his silhouette is so still. Why he does nothing as the outline of his figure watches you drop to your knees._

_"Are you dead too?" You ask meekly, dropping to your knees. You glance around you, and even more bodies litter the floor._

_But Diavolo is poised as ever: too upright to be dead but too still to be alive._

_There's a man behind him. Another distinctly familiar figure, though you can't place where you know him from. You glance up at the two of them, your eyes filled with tears, and you reach an arm forward to crawl your way to the throne—to the darkness that Diavolo seems to emanate._

_"Please," You whisper, practically dragging your body forward as you throw yourself at his feet. "Please be alive," You pray, clasping his foot when you're close enough._

_And it's only here, when you're this close, that you can look up and see the expression on his face. If you do, you'll see his eyes, the amber eyes you've fallen in love with, and you'll know whether he truly is alive._

_So you raise your head._

_Slowly, impossibly slowly, you lift your gaze from his feet to his knees. His knees to his chest. His chest to his jaw._

_You brace yourself for the worst, your sobs already worsening, and you begin to look higher and higher, just below his eyes and then you've looked up and—_

"Darling!"

The shout pulls you from your nightmare, your eyes flying open in alarm.

_Diavolo._

You shoot off his chest abruptly, impossibly alert despite having woken from your nap mere seconds ago, and spin around in his arms, cupping his cheeks with both your hands.

"Diavolo?" You mumble, a rush of emotion hitting you all at once. You were crying in your sleep before, but now is when you truly begin to sob, giving the demon no choice as you fling yourself forward and trap him in an embrace so tight he seems to choke. "You're alive," You mumble, still not believing the words. "You're alive. You're alive. You're _alive."_

If Diavolo didn't know what was troubling you in your sleep before, he's able to piece together the clues from your words. Within seconds, he's got his arms wrapped around you in quiet reassurance.

"Shh," He mumbles into your ear even as you continue to choke over the fact that he's actually here. That it was just a nightmare. That you're not surrounded by death and blood and violence, and that things are okay once more. "It was just a dream, darling," He rocks you in his arms, fingers running through your hair in soothing motions as you struggle to compose yourself. "I'm here. I'm alive. No one hurt me. I'm alive."

Your fingers tremble for a moment as you recall the contents of your dream: that _he_ might be alive, but those palace workers were doubtlessly dead as you crossed them.

A sick feeling settles in your stomach. An overwhelming sense of anxiety, prompted by the inexplicable notion that this wasn't just a dream. That it was something more.

The very thought makes your eyes widen.

It felt like a _warning._

"Diavolo," You blurt, leaning back. You force him to look you in the eyes, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you in return. "You can't go back to the cage fighting ring."

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"I'm serious! In—in my dream, I didn't know if you were alive or dead! It was—everyone was—there was _death_ in the air, Diavolo! It—"

"Shh," He mumbles, quieting you as he pulls you into another embrace. "Darling, seeing those cage fights must have scared you more than you thought. I'm not going to get hurt. And even if I lose to the Victor, I'm not going to die. Alright?"

"No," You blurt, withdrawing. "Diavolo, you don't understand. My dream—my dream felt _real!_ Like—like it was a sign—I'm being honest! And I know it sounds stupid, but I hardly think it's a coincidence that _you_ were the focus of my dream, and now you're going off to the in the final night of the cage fights."

But the demon shakes his head, the look in his eyes disbelieving even as you try to get him to understand your dream.

"Diavolo, _please!_ Just do this one thing for me! I know that it's a matter of pride, that you want to defeat the man who humiliated you—but I feel like my dream was urging us against this very thing!"

"Darling," Diavolo interrupts softly, touching your cheek. "You know you're a terrible liar, right?"

Your cheeks warm at that, and you feel a slight blow to your pride, but you nod your head. "Fine. I am. But how exactly does this relate?"

Diavolo chuckles, stealing a chaste kiss from your lips. "You're just as terrible at hiding things, love. I know that you've been on edge ever since you saw me fight on the first night of the cage fights." The demon leans back, tracing the outline of your cheek. "This dream is just the manifestation of those nerves. It means nothing. I'll be fine, I promise you."

"You don't know that," You grumble. But in your heart, you do see the merit to Diavolo's words.

It's been three nights now of nonstop fighting. You've already fallen into a schedule. You stay at the palace for breakfast and dinner, pretend to travel to the homes of various nobles for lunch while you visit (and nap with) Diavolo, and spend your nights watching the demon fight his way through the tournament.

But tonight is the fourth night.

And short as the fighting "season" is, none of the past three nights' combat will be able to compare to the brutalities Diavolo encounter tonight.

Every waking moment has been spent in quiet fear for Diavolo; you believe in his skills, but you have no faith in those around him. Cage fighting is a sport of the underground for a reason—the participants are not to be trusted. These past few days, you've been living in constant fear that Diavolo is going to go against a less-than-honorable fighter who will approach him with poison coating his knuckles. Or that he'll face someone concealing a weapon. Or that the no-teeth rule will be "forgotten," and your lover will be publicly mutilated.

You can't even try to pretend that the fear hasn't been messing with your mind.

"I don't think you should come tonight," Diavolo mumbles quietly.

"What?" You snap. You lean back, glaring harshly. "Diavolo, tonight is the single most important night—"

"And it will be the bloodiest. Those remaining are strong, but fierce. I made it to the fourth night when I last fought, and you remember how savagely I was defeated."

"Exactly!" You protest. "Diavolo, you can't _possibly_ expect me to let you go in there alone. The arena is practically a den of wolves!"

"And this year, I'm going to be the strongest wolf of them all." Diavolo holds his gaze firm as he stares at you, his resolve nowhere near cracking. "You and I both know that I have what it takes to defeat the Victor. And even if I don't, I can defend myself better this year."

You stay quiet for a moment.

Internally, your brain is running at top speed. Weighing the pros and cons of letting Diavolo go alone. Trying to gauge the potential risk he might face. Figuring out how likely he is to get injured, and whether those injuries will need immediate treatment or not.

"Please," Diavolo mumbles quietly. "I know it must have been scary for you to have that nightmare, but it was just as awful to have you in my arms and shivering in fear, all without being able to do anything. I don't...If we can avoid that, I want us to do it. At all costs."

"Even at the price of me not being able to celebrate your victory with you?" You mumble quietly, trying to detect the faintest trace of hesitation in Diavolo's eyes.

"Yes." His answer is swift and immediate. "The second I leave the cage, win or lose, I will come here." Diavolo intertwines his fingers with yours and brings your hands to his lips. "And then we can celebrate together."

"You're awfully confident," You laugh lightly, already beginning to forget your dream in lieu of Diavolo's charms.

"Only because you trained me yourself," Diavolo grins cheekily, kissing your hand once more. "And because I already know how beautiful your smile will be when I tell you that I've won."

* * *

Convincing you to stay behind was the right decision.

Diavolo fights back the sick feeling that emerges in his stomach every time he glances at the pile of bodies that has been crammed unceremoniously into the corner of the prep room, just beyond the sight of the spectators but practically in perfect lighting for all fighters to see.

Thus far, there have been eight deaths. Three demons are expected to be dead within the hour (though a medical expert said that if they survive this hour, they'll make full recoveries), and two more seem to have lost their pulses but not their souls.

None of this has been at Diavolo's own hand, of course.

It's almost entirely been the work of the Victor.

Diavolo swallows nervously as he remembers snapshots of the fights he's watched. The Victor seems more unhinged this year than the last, and his combat style has been wholly erratic. Where he had _some_ semblance of control in previous seasons, he seemed to care for nothing today as he swung his opponents around, thrusting them throughout the cage and giving them little chance to surrender, even if they wanted to.

 _Yeah,_ Diavolo thinks. _Definitely a good idea to convince her to stay back._

He shudders, remembering how desperately you had cried his name during your nightmare. How he had shaken your shoulders but had been powerless to wake you. How, even after you awoke, he was hardly able to console you, only pulling you away from your memories of the dream with distractions.

If you were disturbed enough to have nightmares from the things you'd seen before, today's battles would send you to an entirely new realm of night terrors.

Diavolo has to try his hardest to push the memories out of his mind, continuing to change into his shirt. The last one had been ripped during combat—so the runners gave him something else. It barely fits, tight around Diavolo's chest but loose around his midsection, but the demon hardly minds.

After all, there's only one fight left.

He leans his neck from side to side, stretching the stiffness out as he prepares to enter, listening quietly to the growing noise around him. The break that took place right after the last match—held so that all spectators would wrap up any last-minute business to watch the final free of disruptions—finished five minutes ago. Diavolo isn't sure what the holdup is, but he's not going to let the delay shake him from his preparedness.

As such, he's entirely ready when, not four minutes later, he hears his title being announced through a microphone, his name booming through the room as he pulls his mask higher on his face and steps forward.

He enters the cage to the sound of restrained applause.

Diavolo's the underdog, he knows. The people who cheer for him cheer out of politeness, out of courtesy. No one expects the defending Victor to have his title stripped from him. Not when he's held the title for so long. Not when people are so used to seeing him defeat everyone who stands in his path. Not when it's public knowledge that Diavolo was practically obliterated by him last season.

The roars that erupt from the crowds the moment the Victor enters the cage from the other end are a reminder of who the expected winner is. Diavolo can already see the cruel glint in his opponent's eye, the calculated method the demon is planning on using to secure the final win.

But Diavolo has no plans of giving him the chance.

The moment the bell rings and the match has begun, he has already ducked low, prepared for the way the Victor's fist swings forward.

And then there's truly nothing but a flurry of fists, feet, and pain.

Diavolo holds his hands high as he retains his combat stance, never sacrificing his form even when he sees the rare openings in the Victor's movements. He approaches the fight the same way he would approach training with you: minimal offense, maximum defense. His goal is to tire his opponent out before he strikes, twisting the odds ever in his favor.

The Victor seems to have an inexhaustible source of energy, though. And while you were absolutely right when you said that you were stronger than him, the fact is that this demon is bigger than you, and Diavolo has to account for that every time he steps back to avoid a punch.

 _Curses,_ the demon thinks the moment he finds himself backed into a corner. His eyes widen momentarily, panic and raw, primal instincts taking over, and Diavolo closes his eyes as he lowers his head, thrusting all his weight into a single punch.

He makes contact.

Everyone's eyes seem to widen at the same time. It's the first decent hit someone has gotten in on the Victor all night. But while Diavolo was confident that he'd _eventually_ be able to begin his offense, he never expected that such a poorly executed attack would make contact.

 _He could have dodged that easily_ , Diavolo thinks to himself, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

But then a sudden realization strikes him.

 _You_ could have dodged that easily.

But the Victor is too big to evade like you.

And the demon grins. Because if the Victor's defense is weaker than yours, then Diavolo _knows_ he has this fight locked down.

He begins attacking his opponent with renewed purpose, and he can almost feel the shift in the room as the crowd slowly begins to realize just how strong Diavolo truly is.

It only emboldens him.

Within seconds, it looks like he and the Victor are going toe to toe with each other, both men getting in an equal amount of kicks and having to dodge the same number of punches. But Diavolo can feel his competitor's defense crumbling under the nonstop barrage of assaults. It starts with a fingernail just grazing his shoulder, then a stray punch landing on the demon's abdomen, and then Diavolo has managed to deliver a swift kick to the Victor's stomach, sending him flying back.

The Victor jumps back up within seconds, but the damage is already done. The crowd is murmuring now, and tension settles over the room.

But Diavolo can feel the tides of the fight. And they wave in _his_ favor.

"Do you remember the last time we fought?" He hisses, glaring at the Victor even as they continue to spar. "You—" Diavolo grunts, trying to land a kick, though it's deflected by his opponent's arm. "Shattered my ribs—" Diavolo dodges an uppercut. "Bashed my head against the ground—" He throws a punch, and it catches the Victor square in the jaw. "Stood on top of me—" Both men kick. Their legs cross, both deflected. "And when I wanted to _surrender,"_ Diavolo practically spit the word, grabbing the Victor's collar and throwing him backward. "You broke my arm so I wouldn't be able to."

Diavolo's gaze darkens as he draws closer to the Victor, making use of the fact that his opponent is now backed against the wall. The roles are reversed as they stand, this time, but Diavolo doesn't make the same mistake as the Victor. He continues to throw punches, refusing to let up even as his competitor fights back, wincing only briefly when the demon lands a hit to his jaw.

Diavolo spits blood onto the ground, wiping his mouth.

 _Careless_ , he thinks. _I'm getting careless._

But while that thought should stir Diavolo back into action, it only pulls the redhead deeper into his own mind, obsessed with thoughts of strategy and technique.

The Victor sees the moment of distraction.

He lunges forward, making a grab for Diavolo's throat. It's an attempt to tackle him to the ground, to thrust his head against the iron cage and beat him to death.

It's a move that will end the fight, should he succeed.

Diavolo's eyes widen when he realizes his predicament: his utter lack of defense as the Victor all but flies toward him, and for the second time in this fight, he lets his body's autopilot take over, legs moving faster than his mind could ever tell them to.

Diavolo forces his eyes to stay open as his leg swings upward and then clamps down, hitting the Victor straight on the head as the force thrusts the demon to the floor, where Diavolo stands over him.

The opponent's eyes widen instantly, and Diavolo seizes the moment, wasting no time in forcing the Victor to roll over before pressing his foot against the man's throat, standing over him.

It's one of the first moves you taught him.

And he executed it _perfectly._

The look in Diavolo's eyes is nothing but menacing as he towers over his competitor, eyes blazing.

All around him, the crowd cheers. Masked watchers stand to get a better view of what is doubtlessly a defining moment of the fight, but no one can hear the words Diavolo speaks to the Victor.

"I will not kill you," The redhead warns sharply. But he continues to balance one foot on the Victor's neck and uses his other foot to step on the demon's stomach, Diavolo using his own body weight to force the Victor to stay on the ground. "I will not give you the privilege of escaping this fight by death."

Diavolo glares at the man beneath him. "Nor will I break a single bone of yours."

Diavolo presses down harder on the demon's neck until he can hear the quiet wheezes of the Victor.

"You will surrender to me now, or you will suffer for hours on end like this until you're ready."

And indeed, Diavolo has that luxury.

The Victor is in an inescapable position, weighed down by an opponent too heavy to throw off, his neck open and vulnerable. Every time his fingers twitch, Diavolo presses down a little harder on his neck, eyes bright with the promise of pain.

"Surrender," Diavolo demands.

And for the first time, his eyes take on those of a king's.

His words are not spoken as a cage fighter urging another to end this fight. They are a _command_ , spoken so icily that the Victor can sense the unspoken threat that underlines them.

Diavolo watches with unwavering eyes as the Victor braces himself before lifting his left hand, four fingers extended in the telltale symbol of surrender.

The crowd goes wild.

Diavolo can hardly hear the sound of the bell ringing as the audience screams in shock, elation, and confusion as they realize that this season has borne a new Victor, usurping the old. In fact, the redhead can barely hear his competitor's words of shame as the demon hangs his head while the crowd continues to whoop and cheer, and Diavolo abruptly thinks that you must be able to hear this noise from your location on the cliffside.

But then there's another sound.

And this one is coming from _inside_ his head.

**_My son._ **

Diavolo flinches on instinct, eyes widening as he gazes around to check if anyone has noticed the magic. They're all too preoccupied with their cheering, though, but it unnerves Diavolo.

**_Raise your fist, my son. Let them bow to you._ **

The demon realizes abruptly that his father must be in this room. That his father is here, in this arena, just like Barbatos was, three nights ago. Diavolo's eyes fly everywhere that he can see, searching for the hulking frame of the true leader of the Resistance.

But amid the sea of masks, he finds nothing.

**_What are you waiting for? Do it now, before their cheers die out._ **

Diavolo gives up his search for his father, opting instead to heed the demon's demands. He raises a fist, slow and steady, to the sky. It's the mark of a Victor: only the strongest may assume this pose, and all before them must bow in submission as an acknowledgment of their power.

It's an awe-inspiring experience.

Diavolo watches with wary eyes as the (ex) Victor next to him bows first, the demon's head touching the ground. Then the first row of demons in the audience halt their cheering to drop to the floor; then the second; the third; the fourth—until every demon in the room is bowing to Diavolo, head lowered in loyal submission.

All except one.

Diavolo almost lets out a cry of surprise when he sees his father standing directly ahead, in the very midst of all the other spectators.

"My friends," The man announces in that booming voice of his. Everyone stares at him in surprise, confused as to why he isn't bowing. "You may rise."

All heads turn to Diavolo for reassurance, no one willing to withdraw from their bowed positions without explicit assent from their strongest, their protector, their Victor.

Diavolo nods his head quietly, and one by one, they begin to rise.

And then the magic begins.

Diavolo watches as his father takes to the air, robes flying up around him as the room gasps in shock at the use of _magic._

"S-Sir!" Someone shouts. "It's—it's forbidden—if the imperial palace sees you using—using—"

Diavolo winces. The palace has driven such fear into the peoples' hearts that they can't even say the _word_ magic _._

"The imperial palace is our concern no longer," Diavolo's father responds smoothly once he's in the center of the room, floating to where all may see him. The man reaches behind his head, removing the elegant mask which had covered his face, and another collective gasp goes around the room—for removing one's mask breaks the single most important tradition of cage fighting.

"It is my pleasure to meet you," He announces, arms crossed proudly. "I am the leader of the Resistance, the rebel faction that is seeking to usurp the current crown."

The demon gestures downward.

"And the new Victor you have before you is my son."

Everything else that his father says is textbook. It's the same exact speech that he uses whenever he wants to bring people over to the Resistance. It starts with a list of the imperial palace's wrongdoings, goes on to explain how the oppression of the people has only worsened through the past hundred millennia, includes a few impassioned "We will not stand for this!" statements here and there, but it always ends the same way.

In cheers.

Diavolo's gaze is level when the sound of cries surrounds him once more, every soul in the room raising their own fists at the encouragement of his father, ready to defy the crown.

"It's time for the royal family to answer for their crimes!"

Hurrahs and whoops.

"It's time to restore balance to the Devildom!"

Shouts of agreement.

"It's time to usher in a _new_ royal family—one chosen by the people!!"

Screams of approval.

Diavolo waits until his father is done speaking, used to every thought-out line in this speech. But then, right at the end, where the crowd is supposed to descend into cheers and every soul in the room is supposed to pledge loyalty to the Resistance and to Rebellion, his Father goes off-script.

"And now," The future demon king practically roars, and Diavolo looks up in confusion. _Doesn't it end there?_ "The time has at last come for our Rebellion to venture out of the shadows and into the open!"

_What?_

"We have prepared for this moment for millennia! With the powers of foresight, power, and _magic_ in our hands, the time has never been better for the people of the Devildom to take back what is rightfully ours!! To take back our rights! Our happiness! Our freedom!"

_I've never heard this part before._

"The time is ripe, everything has at last aligned! Our Rebellion is no longer a process in the works, my friends, it can at last begin!"

_Wait..._

"The thousands of members of the Resistance are loyal to me! Every soul in this room recognizes my son as the strongest! And now, with these forces combined, the power harnessed in my faction and _your_ strength as those who are honor-bound to follow my son, we have everything we need!"

_No. This can't be. Father can't do this. Father won't do this._

"Tonight, the moon fell from the sky and closed its eyes to a broken nation! A shadow of its former glory! A miserable Devildom, more pitiful than it ever has been! But tomorrow, when the moon rises in the sky to gaze down at us once more, let it look upon a new world! A Devildom ruled by the good! The people! _Us!"_

"Father," Diavolo mumbles, numb with shock. But his voice is a whisper next to the roars of approval from all around them.

"Our Rebellion begins tomorrow, and with it, we shall burn everyone in the palace who has ever wronged us!"

Those words throw the crowd over the edge, and Diavolo's father raises his fist in response, the overwhelming _support_ coming in the shape of shouts, whoops, cheers, and applause. The demon fills the room with magic, a forbidden hum that only further frenzies those in this room after it has been banned for so long, and Diavolo nearly shudders under its intensity, for it is more powerful than anything he has ever felt.

**_Diavolo._ **

The voice is small, almost quiet. Soft enough that no one else can notice it, but Diavolo looks at his father instantly.

"You didn't tell me Rebellion would come this soon," The demon blurts instantly, still slightly in shock.

**_Rebellion's arrival was dependent on when we would be able to harness the power of the underground. Timing was a coincidence._ **

"You knew," Diavolo mumbles, his breath shaky. "You knew I wouldn't fight if I—"

**_I did what I had to for the greater good._ **

"No, you _lied_ to me, Father. You lied to me, and you used me, and—"

**_Go, Diavolo._ **

The demon blinks up at his father, looking almost stupid in his momentary confusion.

**_Go to your princess, and spend the four hours you have left in her arms. But do not try to stop the inevitable. You know as well as I do that the wheels of Rebellion have already begun to move—and I will send Barbatos to infiltrate the palace with you at the break of dawn. Say your goodbyes tonight, for it is the final night you shall have._ **

"Father, this doesn't change the fact that—"

**_Listen to me, Diavolo. If you do not want to spend your life regretting this, leave now._ **

"But—"

**_Go._ **

Diavolo doesn't wait any longer at that, spinning on his heel as he all but sprints out of the cage. The demon doesn't bother trying to contact anyone, doesn't bother changing out of the clothes that are drenched in sweat and blood, doesn't bother acknowledging anyone who bows to him as he passes.

He has only one goal in mind: to find you.

And to save you.

He transforms into his demon form the second he's outside, blending into the darkness as his wings carry him to your location within minutes. He drops himself in the swamp outside the cliffside so as to not scare you, but he's so desperate that he bursts out of it all the same, sprinting in your direction as you widen your eyes at him.

"Diavolo!" You shout, grinning that beautiful smile that he would appreciate so much more if he hadn't just learned that Rebellion will begin tomorrow. "How did it go?" Your eyebrows furrow the moment you see him. "Why are you running? Darling? You're still in your training clothes, do you know tha—"

Diavolo barrels straight into you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he all but clings to your figure.

"Diavolo?" You ask gently, running a hand through his hair. A wave of sympathy washes through your body, seeping into Diavolo's own. "Don't feel bad. There's always the next season, and—"

"I won."

"Huh?"

"I won," The demon repeats, reluctantly unburying his head from your stomach, leaning back to look you earnestly in the eye. "But we have to get out of here."

"What?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Diavolo, you're not making any sense."

"Please," The redhead blurts, grabbing your hand. "We have to go. Now. I can explain...later. But we have to get as far away as possible _right_ now, so please—"

"Diavolo," You mumble, pulling him into a serene kiss. Your disposition is nothing but calm and soothing.

 _Of course_ , Diavolo thinks bitterly. _It's not like she knows that she's going to die tomorrow._

"Tell me what's wrong," You mumble quietly. "Slowly. Take your time."

"I..." _Can't._

Diavolo stares at the ground, knowing all too well that if he tells you the truth—that he's part of a Resistance faction that's about to throw a coup tomorrow in an attempt to usurp and kill you alongside your entire family—you're not going to go with him. And if you attempt to head out onto the streets without him, your naive trust in the world will end in nothing but death. Only death, if you're lucky. But Diavolo knows you won't be.

"Please," He pleads dumbly, not knowing what else to say. He tries to come up with a lie. He tries so hard. But for the first time, he comes up with nothing. As if he's already told you so many lies that his brain refuses to supply him with any more, as punishment for his actions from months ago.

"Please, just believe me. We have to go. Right now. You're going to get hurt otherwise."

"Diavolo," You chuckle, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Your demeanor is still light and casual, not understanding the true gravity of the situation. "Whoever threatened you, I'm sure it will be fine. I can handle myself. And even if I can't, I have you to protect me, don't I?"

Diavolo swears his heart breaks a little at that.

"I love you," He mumbles, gripping your arm. The words are fast and clumsy, hardly romantic—but Diavolo fears he may never get to say them to you if he doesn't tell you the words now. He curses his past self for not saying the words earlier. For lying to you, to himself, and to the world in a pathetic attempt to be loyal to a Rebellion he no longer cares about. "I love you so much. And it hurts so much to love you this much—but I will always love you. No matter what. Please, you believe me, right?"

The demon tenses his grip around your arm, his eyes desperate.

"Diavolo," You whisper softly, pulling him into a hug. "I love you too. Just as much, I'm positive. But whatever has you so worked up is going to be fine, alright?" You press a chaste kiss to his lips, letting your lips linger until you can feel the way the tension has melted from Diavolo's muscles.

"If you love me," He mumbles, and Diavolo feels sick for resorting to this, but he doesn't know any other way to convince you. "If you love me, then you'll listen to me. Please. We have to leave right now." A faint light sparks in his eyes. "We can...we can run away together. And get married. And we can have a big house on an island—any island you want, as long as it's uninhabited. I'll—I'll even build you the house. And we can have children—unless you don't want children. And—and we can—we can—we can—"

Diavolo's eyes light up, imagining a future with you where the two of you get to grow old together, happy until the end of your days.

"We can do all that later," You whisper, embracing Diavolo. The demon realizes that he's shaking. "But for now, let's just get you back to normal, alright?"

"No," Diavolo mumbles weakly. "No please, if we wait, it's going to be too late."

And indeed, he means those words not in the context of Rebellion but in the frame of his own mind. Because the moment he begins thinking about the greater good and the fact that running away with you will doubtlessly doom the Devildom, he'll realize that he has to go through with Rebellion, no matter how much he doesn't want to.

"We have to go. Please, if I tell you why, then you won't come. We need to move now—before—before I change my mind and do something stupid—"

"Shh," You mumble, quieting him. "Close your eyes, darling," You mumble, pressing a kiss to Diavolo's lips. "Relax."

You pull your arms around him and he sobs freely into your arms, clinging to your figure like it's a lifeline as he realizes that he failed. That you're not going to run away with him. That the picture of the two of you, old and happy, holding hands on a beautiful island with no one to disturb you, was nothing more than a stupid dream.

The worst part is that he can't even continue his attempt to convince you. Because he knows it's _wrong_. That Rebellion is what the Devildom needs. And that Diavolo will be a monster for standing in the way of that.

But won't he still be a monster if he kills you?

"I don't want..." _To watch you die,_ Diavolo wants to say, pulling you close so that he can memorize the warmth of your embrace, the shape of your body, the little details he can savor tonight but never again.

"Shhh, close your eyes, darling. Everything's going to be okay." You kiss him. "I promise."

He lets out a sob, clutching your figure in silent apology as he heeds your instructions and savors these moments of peace, for they will be the last. But as he shuts his eyes and tries to focus on the sensation of your arms around him, warm and loving, all he can imagine is the sight of your body in chains beneath him, the whole world watching as he kills you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 11.1k
> 
> Notes: In my original draft of this fic, Diavolo never gives MC his real name. He calls himself "Brutus," tossing her the name of a character he heard Barbatos talk about once, not really knowing the context of it. At that time, the fic title was going to be The Tragedy of Julius Caesar.
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Next Update: 8/16/20
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	8. Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: semi-graphic descriptions of violence, gore, suicide, double suicide, poison, fire, burning alive

You don't know that your life is going to end.

But from the moment you wake up, you know that something is wrong.

Call it a hunch, call it a guess. But as your two maids pull you out of bed to bathe and dress you, you're positive that something is off. That something is strange. That today is different, and not in a good way.

"Do you hear that sound?" You ask the maid tying your hair, closing your eyes as she works. There's a low hum that envelopes your hearing, like a swarm of bees that won't stop buzzing right outside your room.

Your maid pauses, halting her shuffling to focus on the silence, searching for any sounds that block it out.

The brief quietness that wraps around your room is a final moment of peace.

Then your door has been kicked open, revealing your knight standing in full armor, his helm donned and his sword unsheathed, and you bid farewell to tranquility—not knowing that it will be the last moments of serenity you will ever have.

"Sire!" You exclaim, turning around in shock. You open your mouth to reprimand him, to remind him that even if he is your knight of honor, he cannot barge into your chambers at random like this.

Before you can say a word, though, he's begun speaking. And once the words begin to start pouring out of his mouth, it's like they won't stop.

"Escape—we have to escape! Rebels have seized the west and central wings—we must leave! Now! They've scattered our forces, but a few of us remain in this section of the palace! I've ordered all the men within my unit to set up a defense by all the secret exits, but we must leave _now_ , otherwise—"

Your mind goes blank. His words carry such weight that you can hardly process them.

 _Rebels?_ Your eyes widen. And they're in the _palace?_

"Sire, what about my—"

"Your parents have barricaded in the central wing. Their status remains unconfirmed."

Beneath his helm, your knight's lips are set in a thin line, the demon already making swift strides to wrap his fingers around your arm and yank you out of your seat.

"What are you two _waiting_ for?" He practically shouts at your maids when the two of you are nearly out of your room. _"Hurry!"_

The urgency in his voice stirs you to action, and within seconds, the four of you have begun sprinting down the empty hall, the only sounds around you being that incessant hum from somewhere outside and the clattering of boots and heels as you collectively begin to escape.

"Sire—" You blurt, using one hand to bunch your dress up. "How—how did this _happen?_ Or—or _when?_ The rebels—it should have been impossible for them to sneak inside. Why weren't the knights guarding the palace?"

"The knights _were_ guarding the palace," The demon responds grimly, jerking your elbow closer to him as he makes a turn, glancing back to confirm that your maids are still hot on your heels. "The rebels managed to enter the palace from inside. They must have had assistance from someone within the palace."

"Who would..."

 _Who would betray your parents?_ They've done more than enough to ensure that every civilian, palace worker, and knight in the nine circles of hell is terrified to the core of them and their power. You're not surprised that a rebel faction rose up—but the fact that they were able to get help from within the palace is confusing in more ways than one.

"I don't know, princess." Your knight glances at your with sympathetic eyes, _pity_ laced into the irises you've grown so familiar with. "I am sorry."

"Do not be," You respond curtly, bunching the fabric of your dress tighter in your fist as you run. "There is nothing you could have done."

"Perhaps," The knight muses. "But there are things I can still do now—and it is my mission to see you to safety, princess."

The demon grins at you, flashing you the same broad, charming grin that you've grown used to seeing in these past few months. And for a moment, everything seems like it will be alright. Yes, the palace is currently being infiltrated by rebels and yes, you have no clue whether the rest of your family is safe or not. But as you remember this knight's pledge of honor to you, you know that as long as he is by your side, you're safe.

The thought would make you smile, if not for the fact that seconds later, the four of you turn the corner and run straight into rebels.

Your knight reacts before you do, fingers tensing around your arm with bruising force as he yanks you backward, placing your body behind him. He stands in front of you like a shield, his longsword drawn in his hand within seconds.

Your maids aren't so lucky.

They stop themselves from their sprint only when it's too late, their bodies staggering forward clumsily as they spot the rebels a moment after you.

_A moment too long._

You reach a hand out to grab for them, but the knight holds you back, and their names leave your lips in a strangled gasp.

The rebels kill them so quickly, your maids don't even have time to scream before their bodies are falling to the floor, limp and bloodied.

"What—wait—" Your eyes widen with horror, and the knight tries to pull you behind him once more in an attempt to shield you from the sight; but you can't take your eyes off the women who have been with you from childhood. "You _monsters!"_ You seethe, hot tears forming in your eyes as you glare at one of the rebel demons. "I would have—I would have given _myself_ up in exchange for their lives—but—but—"

"We do not need you to _give yourself_ up to us," A voice rings out, interrupting you smoothly.

Your eyes widen.

You know that voice. You've heard that voice. You've _spoken_ with that voice.

"Try to escape as much as you wish, but your life will be in our hands before the day's end." Footsteps click against the stone floors, and a figure emerges in front of the band of rebels. A figure you recognize. "After all," The demon laughs, his tone just as cruel as you remember it. "The last time we met, you told me you wished that vengeance would be delivered to my enemy."

Green eyes meet yours, staring coldly down at you.

"And you, my princess, are the enemy of the people."

The teal-haired demon walks closer, a hand raised to signify that the other rebels ought to not attack. The _yet_ is implied.

"You—you—" You shudder as he approaches, a rage engulfing your senses. "You _bastard,"_ You seethe, ignoring the fact that your language is wholly inappropriate for a lady of your standing. "You _lied_ to me! You told me you were a—a—a _butler!_ How does it feel, Sir? To know that you had to lie your way to where you're standing right now?"

The demon chuckles, but the sound is devoid of mirth. No, the laughter that rings forth is nothing but cruel, abrasive to the ear. "I did not lie to you, princess." The demon grins. "I _am_ a butler, after all. I merely...left some details out."

The butler takes two more steps forward, but just as he's about to draw even nearer, your knight raises his longsword, pointing it straight at the demon's chest.

"Not a step closer," He warns, the edge in his voice more threatening than the glint of steel between his fingers.

"Of course," The butler says courteously, nodding his head.

He drops the hand that had been raised, the hand which had been signaling for the other rebels to remain on standby.

They attack the second his hand falls.

Your knight is prepared for them when they come, battling off the six swords with his own as you and the butler merely watch.

"I can _fight,"_ You try to explain when the knight pushes you back, never loosening his grip on your arm as he forces you behind him while single-handedly clashing his steel against the rebels'.

"You have no weapon," The knight hisses in response, smoothly disarming one knight. He pierces the demon's heart with his sword, the sound of his flesh tearing open making you flinch. The man cries in response, giving a shuddering gasp which chills you to the core, but your knight has no time to waste with him while five others are still active on the assault, and within moments, his longsword is withdrawn from the demon's body and is back to clinging against his opponents'.

You grit your teeth, hating how the only thing you can do is keep your footsteps in line with the knight's so that you don't trip him, knowing that you'll do nothing but worry him if you try to fight. But still, you keep a fist raised, entirely prepared to jump into the battle if you see your knight being overpowered.

"Impressive," The butler calls out when your knight slices the head off one demon and knocks another unconscious, turning the match into a three-on-one. "Have you ever thought about joining forces with the Resistance, young knight? Your strength may have gone unappreciated under the past tyrant rulers, but the new king will reward you well for your loyalty."

"I am loyal to my princess," Your knight spits in response, punctuating the sentence by killing another rebel and making a swipe for the butler. The green-eyed demon merely steps out of its way. "Your rebel faction means _nothing_ to me."

The knight darts back, and you scamper out of his way so that he doesn't bump into you when he evades a hit from a heavy battle-ax, but the momentum of the movement was too much for the demon who attacked, and in the brief seconds where he is struggling to lift the weapon back off the ground, your knight has already darted in and delivered the fatal wound.

When the battle turns into a one-on-one, there's no question of the winner anymore.

You feel your heart begin to steady when the knight slays the last of the attacking rebels, the adrenaline of fearing for your life wearing off the moment you're no longer in immediate danger.

Yet the butler remains.

Your knight raises his longsword, circling around the demon cautiously, holding you behind his back the whole time as if he's waiting for the man to attack.

But the butler does nothing, maintaining his eerily calm smile as you both cross him in the hall.

Your knight takes a step back, still holding his longsword up. Then another. And another. He takes one more, and then his grip around your arm is _even_ stronger, and the two of you are sprinting down the hall once more, leaving the butler behind as you run.

"That vile man was standing in front of one of the only secret exits in the east wing," Your knight grunts in explanation, gritting his teeth. "We'll have to go around the palace if we want to—"

"Wait!" You interrupt, something more important crossing your mind. You tug the demon backward. "My maids! Their bodies—we have to take them with us so we can give them a proper—"

"No one will be getting any burials today, princess." Your knight's expression darkens as he turns the corner. "Your maids aren't the only ones who ran into those rebels."

For a moment, the two of you pause in your sprint to study the hall in front of you. It's nearly a replica of the scene in your dream: a perfect picture of death. Bodies line the floor, their blood layering out a carpet of red over the stone. Arms are bent at awkward angles, legs are missing, and the entrails of a certain demon have spilled out next to him. Every demon who has died here has died so brutally that there will be no peace for them in the afterlife, their bodies mutilated beyond the point of return.

But for a second, it feels like every pair of dead, open eyes is staring straight at you.

You don't have any time to contemplate the notion, because before you can blink, your knight is tugging you through the sea of bodies without a care in the world.

You try not to cringe as you hear the squelching sound that the corpses make when the two of you trample over them. It takes all your efforts to keep your eyes up and not look down, not stare at the thing that your heel is sinking into which makes such a pitiful sound.

"Princess..." You hear someone breathe from behind you, inches from death but still seeking you out, but your knight has pulled you forward before you can even look back, telling you to keep your eyes off the ground.

You feel sick.

The feeling never leaves you, not when you and the knight start up a sprint once more and not when the ground is finally its usual grey color, with only the occasional palace worker brutalized every couple hundred feet. The queasiness stays with you all the way until you're nearly out of the east wing, after your knight has fought off another handful of rebels and when the two of you are close to another secret exit.

But you make the mistake of glancing inside a familiar room.

And then it's another feeling that's overwhelming your senses, and the nausea at seeing so many mutilated bodies fades when another sight enters your vision.

"Wait," You mumble, instantly slowing down.

"Princess?" The knight in front of you calls, tugging your arm. "We have to go, we don't have time to—"

"No!" You blurt, tugging the knight backward, going back to the room you just saw. It had to be your imagination, right? Could it be true?

Your knight protests the whole time as you practically drag him back to the throne room, squinting to see whether it was just a trick of the light or whether you _actually_ saw what you think you did.

And sure enough, you were right the first time.

_Red hair._

Your eyes soften, a familiar warmth settling inside your heart.

_Amber eyes._

A careless smile breaks out on your face: the smile of a fool in love.

"Diavolo!" You practically sing as you step forward into the throne room, the knight behind you flinching when he sees that you've willingly entered into the same room as someone who certainly _isn't_ a palace worker.

The redhead makes no motion to respond to you, his expression unreadable as you draw close.

"You're here," You say with so much love that it hurts, every inch of your body overwhelmed with the fact that your lover somehow managed to make it here to protect you.

It doesn't strike you as odd that Diavolo is sitting on your throne.

"We're saved," You whisper to the knight next to you. You can feel him instinctively relax when he sees the utterly relieved expression on your face, but the arm that grips you remains tense. "This is the man I told you about. The man I want to marry."

You turn away from your knight, addressing your lover.

A beaming smile lights up your face.

"You're here to save us, aren't you?" You ask, ready to cry tears of joy. You were so scared, so terrified that you were actually going to die. But Diavolo pulled through. He came here for you. To help you. To protect you.

To save you.

Something flashes in Diavolo's eyes. An unfamiliar emotion. It looks like guilt, but surely you misread it? He should be _proud._ He made it here on time. You're going to be okay, now.

And it's all thanks to Diavolo.

"Princess..." Your knight mumbles into your ear after Diavolo has been silent for a moment too long. "This is the man you have been leaving the palace to see?"

You nod, smiling sweetly.

Your knight stares down at you, eyes softening. A strange emotion swirls in his eyes as he sees the utterly trusting expression you regard your lover with, but you don't bother commenting on it as you continue to attempt escaping his tight grip around your arm so you can go forward and embrace Diavolo.

When the demon next speaks, you're confused.

"Princess, get behind me."

Your knight raises his sword to Diavolo, his eyes narrowed in pure hatred as he looks upon the man who sits on your throne.

"What? Sire, what are you doing? Diavolo isn't the enemy, he's—"

"Get _behind_ me," Your knight repeats with such venom in his voice that you turn to Diavolo, expecting the man to say something—but your lover doesn't look at you. He keeps his gaze focused solely on the knight, lifting his own sword when he sees the demon draw close.

"W-wait," You blurt the second you see your knight move forward, beginning to circle Diavolo. "S-Sire, what are you doing? D-Diavolo, don't fight him—I know I never told you about who I really am, but—but—but this knight is on our side, and—"

"Princess," Your knight cuts you off, his expression fixed on Diavolo.

You don't respond to his word, too preoccupied with the sight of the two demons you trust most being poised to fight, both stanced for a duel which looks like it will end in death.

"This man..." Your knight glares, closing one eye as he raises his longsword.

"...Has lied to you."

Steel crosses with steel.

Your eyebrows furrow the moment the demons move, the moment you see how _precise_ their swings are—and you dart forward, trying to step between their weapons until the knight pushes you away, practically shoving you behind him.

"Sire—Sire, _stop!_ I am commanding you to stop! This is a misunderstanding, this is—"

"No, princess," Your knight scowls, dodging swiftly before thrusting his sword at Diavolo's stomach, though the redhead evades easily. _"You_ have misunderstood."

"What are you..."

You flinch when the sound of metal clanging fills your ears, stepping back.

"This man has lied to you, princess." Your knight begins advancing, and the fury in his words is emphasized by every movement of the blade between his hands. "Who do you think he is? A farmer? A commoner? A merchant?" Your knight glares. "He is among the rebels. No, he must be their _leader."_

"What...?" You turn your eyes upon Diavolo, waiting for him to deny it. Waiting for him to step back and furrow his eyebrows cutely like he does whenever he doesn't know what you're talking about. Waiting for him to say _something_ to prove your knight wrong, and prove that this is all just a big misunderstanding.

But he says nothing, only continuing to retreat as your knight's attacks grow more frenzied.

"How did it feel?" Your knight hisses, no longer addressing you but now solely focused on Diavolo. "Leading the princess on, tricking her into loving you, toying with her heart so that you could sit on her throne?"

Your knight swings his longsword with such strength that if Diavolo hadn't ducked, his torso would have been cut clean off.

"Diavolo," You whisper, hesitantly turning to him. He ignores you, but you see the way the muscles twitch in his neck when you speak. "Diavolo, please. Tell me...tell me it isn't true."

But for the first time, the demon you've come to love ignores you.

"Close the door, Barbatos," He commands. You nearly flinch at the inflection of his voice, because never before have you ever seen him speak with such authority—but then another thought breaks into your mind, and you shudder because he isn't just asking to have the door closed. He's asking to make it so that no one can disturb you.

Diavolo wants to kill your knight without any interruptions.

"Wait!" You shout, spinning around, hoping that the rebel behind you will be someone you can plead with. But when you glance back, the eyes that greet you are cold. Callous. Cruel.

_Green._

You shiver as the butler from before smiles eerily at you, closing the door with a bang which seems to echo through the room, momentarily overpowering even the sounds of swordfighting from behind you.

_How did he get here so fast?_

Another chill crawls down your spine as his empty, olive eyes peel back at your soul, and you turn around just to avoid the sight of him.

Of course, the two men fighting behind you are hardly easier to watch.

Your knight is completely unhinged, now. He throws insults left and right at Diavolo, using his sword to rain down attacks that come just as hard as his words, but your lover says nothing, solely preoccupied with pushing back.

"Vile." He seethes. "Wicked—you are _pathetic._ Your rebellion is unjust. The princess is a better ruler than you can ever hope to be." Your knight spits at Diavolo's feet. "You have no honor. A decent man would have at least charged the gates headfirst, rather than sneaking in from the inside like a coward—"

Your eyes widen in horror.

"Wait," You mumble, falling to your knees. "I—no—it can't—"

"Princess?" Your knight asks, pausing in his insults for the first time when he sees the way you practically crumple to the floor. His gaze shifts back and forth between you and Diavolo, desperately avoiding his opponent's attacks but unwilling to leave you be. "What is—" He grunts, ducking. "What is wrong?"

You take a shaky breath to steady yourself, tears filling your eyes.

But the guilt is overwhelming.

"I gave Diavolo entry to the Temple of the Grim Reaper, Sire." The knight's eyes widen at your words. _"I_ let the rebels into the palace."

Your shoulders slump in shame as you realize the weight of your blunder. The fact that you single-handedly doomed every single person in this palace. That all those mutilated corpses outside are _your_ doing, because if you had never given Diavolo free reign of the holy temple, he never found his way into the palace through the secret passage, and this rebel faction would have had no leverage.

It's _your_ fault.

Your knight gazes at you in sympathy for a moment, his eyes taking on a softer shade as he doubtlessly tries to come up with something to say that will comfort you.

And then the weight of your burden abruptly increases, because that single second of hesitation is all Diavolo needs to deliver a deadly blow, and your knight drops to the ground.

"No!" You scream, scrambling forward. You don't care how pathetic you look, you don't care how unladylike you're being. You have enough death on your hands—you can't take any more. "No," You mumble, cradling your knight's head in your lap as Diavolo gazes down at you with unreadable eyes.

"I can..." Your knight trails off, glancing down at where Diavolo has sliced into his skin.

A single glance is all it takes to know that the wound is fatal.

"I can...fight..." He grunts, using the last of his strength to push you away, away from him and away from Diavolo, stabbing his sword into the ground to use it to crawl to his feet.

Diavolo makes no motion to stop him.

You glance around the room, desperately searching for a weapon—but your throne room has been stripped of its furnishings. There lies not even a rock you can throw to intervene with the fight, and you know better than to go against an opponent who has a sword without one of your own.

You cringe as the sound of metal meeting flesh fills your ears, already knowing that Diavolo isn't the one who was just injured.

"Cease this," You breathe shakily. "Diavolo, I will give myself to you, but please just spare—"

"I thought I told you we didn't need you to give yourself up?" A voice asks, sharp and irritated. The butler—Barbatos, as Diavolo called him—approaches you from behind, taking advantage of the fact that you're practically paralyzed in fear to stand right next to you. "Watch, princess. Diavolo is not the person who will kill this knight. It will be _you."_

You regard the demon's words with confusion. Confusion and horror, another shudder running up your spine when you feel how _close_ Barbatos is to you; but then the weight of his words hits you, and you realize their meaning.

"I will not..." Your knight spits blood. It hardly does anything, given that he is now covered in red, but he does it all the same. "...stand down." He glances back at you, and his gaze is nearly as terrifying as Barbatos's, utterly horrifying to look at because of how his face is littered with cuts and he's drenched in blood—but you refuse to let yourself turn away. "I swore to you that as long as my blood runs warm," He trembles, taking a staggering step as he raises his sword. "Then...you shall be protected."

Diavolo strikes, clanging the sword out of his hand. It falls to the floor, too far for the knight to pick it back up.

"So, I must...I have to...survive...if not for my own sake...then for yours, princess..."

Your knight raises a fist, a final act of defiance that he knows is futile, but it's the only option he has left. You cringe internally, waiting for Diavolo to strike him down, to kill the final shield that guards your life—but the redhead is unmoving as your knight's gloved fist comes crashing down against his cheek, the punch falling upon his face without an ounce of resistance.

Isn't it sick that even now, you feel a twinge of sympathy for Diavolo?

You watch as your knight remains standing for a beat longer, raising a second fist to strike him again.

But one free punch is all Diavolo was willing to give him, and when your lover's sword cuts open your knight's neck, the demon doesn't even scream before he crumbles to the floor, dead as the bodies outside.

* * *

You don't look at Diavolo when he enters the room.

Your gaze is fixated on the floor, on a speck of dirt that you want to flick away but _can't_ because of the way your wrists have been handcuffed to the ground.

"Leave us."

You raise your eyes, sneaking a peek at the two demons who stand behind Diavolo. One of them is Barbatos, but that's hardly surprising, given that out of all the rebels you'd crossed when you were dragged to this room in chains, Barbatos is the only one who never left Diavolo's side.

You squint in the darkness, lowering your head to get a better sight of the other demon, noting that something about him seems awfully familiar. Raising your head, you try to catch a glimpse of the demon's eyes and—

_Oh._

It's the Victor.

Fighting for Diavolo's Rebellion, doubtlessly brought here by the redhead's victory last night.

The very thought fills you with anger.

"I trained you," You croak, the chains rattling from behind you when you and Diavolo are alone. "I trained you, and I fed you, and I healed you, and now you're turning that _against_ me?"

Bitterness drips from your voice like blood off the sword hanging on Diavolo's side.

"I was _good_ to you. I taught you, and I protected you, and I _loved you_ —"

Your words are growing louder now, hysteria sinking into your voice as you fight back the tears.

"I _loved_ you, and I kissed you, and I _slept_ with you—" Your words break off, the tears now freely pouring down your face. You heave in a breath, but the cold air stings your lungs. "How _could_ you, Diavolo? I thought—"

You choke back a sob.

"I thought you _loved_ me."

You close your eyes, dropping your head to the ground so that Diavolo can't see the tears as they stream down your face.

The last thing you expect is for him to drop to his knees and wrap you in a hug.

"Don't _touch_ me," You hiss, but you can't bring yourself to pull away from his arms.

"I'm sorry," He breathes into your ear, and it feels less like he's hugging you and more like he's clinging to you, desperate to hold on to your figure while he still can. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry doesn't forgive killing my people," You retort, memories of every person who has died today flashing through your mind. "You and your rebels slaughtered my men. My women. My palace workers. My knights."

"Everyone was given the opportunity to come to our cause," Diavolo responds. "The ones who had been brainwashed by your parents stayed, but over ninety percent of the palace forces have joined the Resistance, and—"

"Brainwashed?" The word falls from your lips like it's poison, and you glare at Diavolo. "My parents never _brainwashed_ —"

"Can you truly say that?" Diavolo asks, his voice sharp. The amber eyes you've grown to love are impossibly clear as they stare you down, and the raw confidence of his voice makes you hesitate. 

_Can_ you truly say that your family hasn't brainwashed their most loyal supporters? It certainly wouldn't be unusual, given all their other transgressions against the people. But still...

 _"I_ wouldn't have brainwashed anyone," You whisper.

"It doesn't matter what _you_ would have done," Diavolo responds, reaching a hand to card through your hair. The gesture is so familiar and loving that you can't help but relax, despite the situation. Diavolo's next words are a stark reminder of the truth. "What matters is your parents. What they have already done. Their crimes against the people, and what the people are now going to do in retaliation."

You lower your head.

"You can't deny that your parents have been awful to the masses. It's not an opinion. Their tyranny is a _fact._ A rebellion was inevitable—the only people who have neglected to join the Resistance did so out of fear, and even they have turned to our side now that the fated day has come."

"But I was going to free everyone," You whisper. "I was going to change everything when my parents handed over the throne. _Everything,_ Diavolo. I was going to give the people what they _wanted."_

The demon remains silent.

"If you—" You swallow, a surge of hope washing through your senses. "If you want to be king, Diavolo, I can make it happen. I know you're noble—your rebellion proves that. But—but if you _truly_ loved me, then..."

You let your voice fade to a whisper, not bothering to finish a sentence that Diavolo already knows the answer to.

"I already told you that I want nothing more than to marry you," Diavolo whispers. "It would make me happier than anything in the world. But your life...cannot be spared."

"And why not?" You retort, passion burning in your eyes as you look up. The chains clatter against your wrist as you struggle forward, but you force yourself to twist your body into a position that enables you to look your lover in the eye. "I will be a good ruler. I know that. _You_ know that."

"You will be a good ruler," Diavolo agrees. "But the people will forever live in fear under you."

You open your mouth to argue, but the redhead is speaking before you can.

"You are the daughter of the emperor and empress who killed millions. It wasn't just your parents who sucked the Devildom dry—it's been every single ruler in your family. Not only do the people _not_ trust you, they _can't_ trust you. You represent everyone that they have suffered abuse under, everything that—"

"But I'm _not!"_ You argue, jerking your body forward. "I'm _good!_ I was—I was going to take the throne, and I was going to _change_ things! I was—I was—" Another wave of tears springs to your eyes, but this time you don't bother holding them back. "I was going to _marry_ you, Diavolo. I was going to marry a commoner and break every precedent my ancestors have set! I was going to make the Devildom happy, and—and—"

You choke off to get ahold of yourself, taking deep breaths to calm yourself.

"I wanted to marry you. I _want_ to marry you." You jerk your wrist from its chains, trying to reach up to caress Diavolo's face, but the shackles hold you back. "We could still get married," You whisper. "Just like you wanted to, yesterday—we could get married, and we could change the Devildom for eternity."

You lean your head forward, trying desperately to get him to see how _genuine_ you are.

But the look in Diavolo's eyes is tinged with pity.

_His mind is already made up._

"All you had to do was wait," You whisper. "Just a few more months, until the first snow came, and then you would have _seen_ me rise to the throne. Everything would have changed. People would have been _happy."_

Diavolo remains quiet for a moment longer, but when he processes your words, a strange light settles in his eyes.

"The first...snow?" He mumbles, confused.

"Yes," You mumble, eyes downcast. "If you could have waited just a _few_ more months, I was going to inherit the throne."

Diavolo studies you, amber eyes blurred in confusion. The look turns to skepticism, then confusion once more, until the oranges light up with understanding—before his expression darkens.

"Your parents were going to give you the throne."

You nod.

"On the first snow of this year."

Another nod.

Diavolo stares at you blankly, and then his expression twists into a grimace as he pulls away from you, abruptly leaning back.

"They knew," He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. "They _knew_ that Rebellion was coming."

"What?" You try to weasel your way forward and see the look on Diavolo's face, but the darkness of the room makes it impossible. "Why would they stay in the palace if they knew—"

"They _didn't."_

Diavolo glares at the floor, his hand tensing into a fist.

"When we infiltrated the central wing, your parents were already dead." Diavolo drops his head. "It was a double suicide. Poison. They _knew_ we were coming."

"What?" You ask. "No. No way. They wouldn't—they wouldn't _kill_ themselves. Or—or if they did, they—they would have _told_ me, so that—"

"So that what?" Diavolo snaps. "There's nowhere in the Devildom that is safe for any of you. No matter where you go, the masses will follow. You'll be lucky if you can get a quick death, but the public has been oppressed for too long to give any of you an easy out. It would be _hell_ for any of you if you tried to escape. Death was the only way."

"You don't mean..."

Diavolo nods his head, the pitying look in his eyes returning.

"Your parents never planned for you to become Empress." The demon stares at his hands. "They probably just...wanted you to be a bit happier in your final months in the Devildom."

You jerk back abruptly, practically kicking Diavolo away until your back is flush against the wall you're chained to, trying to distance yourself from the demon, yourself from his words, yourself from the _truth_ that is spilling out of his mouth.

"You're wrong," You whisper, closing your eyes. "My parents love me. They wouldn't lie to me. They—I was going to be Empress. They were going to make me Empress."

"We are demons of hell," Diavolo mumbles. "Demons of flame, demons of fire. Summer is our season. We celebrate the heat, not the cold." His eyes raise. "Tell me, have you ever heard of royalty being sworn in during the winter?"

"No," You say. "But I was going to be the first—"

"No," Diavolo cuts you off. "You were never going to be Empress."

You lean back, numb as Diavolo continues to stare at the ground, neither of you willing to move. The moment is delicate. So infinitely precious, as if a single word will shatter the silence. The tears that have been streaming down your cheeks finally stop, their tracks feeling cold as they dry on your face.

Neither of you seems to breathe.

"I came..." Diavolo coughs, clearing his voice when he realizes how shaky his words sound. "I came to fetch you." He refuses to meet your eyes. "The Resistance has full control of the palace, and all the remaining workers and knights have turned over to our side."

A weak laugh escapes from your lips.

The rebels won control of the palace the moment your parents committed suicide. With no hailing Emperor or Empress to bow to, the illusion of fear that had chained all the royal subjects to the palace dissipated. It's hardly any wonder that this rebellion has finished as quickly as it began.

"You're going to kill me," You mumble, almost feeling delirious. "No, no wait—I bet you're going to get rid of my soul as well, aren't you?"

The way Diavolo doesn't respond is an answer in itself.

You try not to think about the excruciating pain that accompanies the death of one's soul, forcing yourself away from a visualization of the agony you're about to go through.

"Your death will mark the beginning of a new era," Diavolo whispers. "The people will be happy. They will be free. Magic will be practiced on the streets, and the Devildom will finally ring with the sound of laughter once more."

"Yeah," You respond, already beginning to imagine it. "But did it ever occur to you that I wanted to see that future?"

Diavolo doesn't have anything to say to that. He remains silent for a long time, probably sorting out his guilt upon everything he's done to you and everything he's about to do to you, but you don't bother comforting him when you see how his eyes shine with regret.

In the end, he never responds to you.

The demon leans forward, reaching over your shoulder in a way that almost makes you think he's going to kiss you, but then you hear the sound of a lock, and the iron pipe that had bound your chains to the wall is dislodged, and you're somewhat free.

You jerk your wrists forward, momentarily considering an attack. But you know you're overpowered, with your ankles shackled to each other and your wrists bound behind your back.

You regret having ever trained Diavolo.

You want to regret having ever loved the man.

"Let's go," He mumbles, standing to his feet while he waits for you to do the same. He doesn't offer a hand to help you up, and you're grateful. You're not sure that you'd be able to take his help right now, not when he's about to kill you.

Neither of you looks at each other.

The walk through the palace is quick. Quicker than you'd like. You know these halls well, but it feels like Diavolo has truly studied them, because the path he leads you through is rigid.

You almost wish you could have had more time to appreciate the walk.

"I do love you," Diavolo mumbles when the two of you are in the hall that leads straight into the main entrance. You peek over his shoulder and see an array of unfamiliar faces, but you already know who they are.

_The Resistance._

"If you had said yes to me yesterday, I really would have run away with you." Diavolo steps forward, brushing away the tearstains from your cheeks.

You hate how soothing you find the gesture.

"But you would have regretted it," You mumble in response, too familiar with Diavolo's code of honor to delude yourself into thinking anything else.

"Yes," He whispers. "I would have."

The two of you remain standing like that for a long time, Diavolo's hand lingering on your cheek while he stares down at you. But you can't bring yourself to meet his gaze. You stare at his chest, remembering the strong muscles there that you always thought would protect you from harm. The same muscles that are now pushing you into death's arms.

You think Diavolo is about to hug you one final time when he turns away, a hush settling over the entrance hall the moment the two of you trail inside.

Everyone looks at you.

You don't return any of their stares, though. The only eyes you are willing to meet are Diavolo's, and he never turns to face you again, avoiding your gaze entirely as he brings you to the palace door.

"It is time." He declares, his voice filled with an authority you're not used to hearing from him. "Begin."

Immediately, the gates creak open.

Your eyes widen as they do so, the low hum that you'd grown used to from this morning growing louder and nearly exploding when the doors open.

Your lips part as you see the obscene amount of barely restrained people, all shouting and jeering and _screaming_ in a noise so deafening you're amazed that the stone castle walls were able to suppress them at all.

For a second, happiness returns to your heart when you see how they instinctively cheer when they see the palace door open—and you think that maybe Diavolo's words were a lie. That maybe, all the masses aren't against you. That maybe, you're not alone in this world, and all these people are here to protest Rebellion.

But then you hear some of the words that they shout and jeer.

And you realize the truth: it's Diavolo they are cheering for. It's cries of Rebellion that ring from their lips. It's hurrahs of the usurper king they scream, and it's the Resistance that they sing praises for.

Only a handful of people resort to throwing insults instead of shouting praise. But the ones who do are not opposing Diavolo.

No, every insult is thrown your way. It's _you_ they loathe.

You, and no other.

* * *

The castle is lit aflame, the building burning before the fires conjured up by Diavolo's father.

It's purely symbolic. The burning of the palace is nothing more than another message to the masses: _look, we have erased every memory of the tyrant rulers from our kingdom._ But still, Diavolo can't help but think that it is one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen. The fire is so huge that it lights up the whole city, illuminating the Devildom which is so often shrouded in darkness.

Diavolo never knew stone could burn. Of course, his father's magic truly seems to know no bounds, so the demon was hardly surprised when all the Resistance members filed outside the palace before his father set it to flames, lifting his fist triumphantly while the masses roared in approval.

The prince glances at you from the corner of his eye, noting how you tremble when you see your home up in flames.

He wants to comfort you.

He wants to hold you.

He wants to love you.

Of course, the demon does nothing of the sort, having been reminded too many times by Barbatos and his father of his role here.

_Bring her to the pyre, set it aflame, walk away._

And nothing else. Barbatos had been particularly adamant about that last part.

"Come," He whispers to you. There's no way that you were able to hear him—not with all the commoners pressed so close to the palace, screaming so loudly—but you move anyway, your chains jingling gently under the deafening jeers as Diavolo leads you to the pyre.

 _It has to be me,_ Diavolo remembers his father telling him as he gently lowers you to your knees, right before he begins to chain your shackles to the bolts of iron and metal that stick out of the ground. _It's symbolic: the prince of the people setting fire to the princess of evil, the old being replaced by the new._

That doesn't stop Diavolo from hating every second.

The demon almost wishes that you would resist, that you would fight back and spit in his face, but you're nothing but compliant, your face already turned into an expression of mute acceptance. Worse yet is the fact that Diavolo _remembers_ that your right wrist is stronger than your left, bolting it down with a touch of magic that you refuse to comment on, never meeting his eyes.

"You're going to die now," Diavolo mumbles, angling his head away from the public so that they can't see. He doesn't know why he says the words. He isn't even sure if you can hear him. But he refuses to move without telling you, as if it's the only mercy he can give. "I'm going to..."

"I know."

Diavolo will never understand how, but your voice hangs above the screams of the masses as they jeer at you, shouting insults. Your words are impossibly clear, maybe even clearer than the creative insults the crowd throws your way. He doesn't know if it's a blessing or a burden, because it forces him to listen to your next words.

Your final words.

"Take care of the Devildom for me, will you, Diavolo?"

You raise your eyes to look up at him, turning away from the mob watching and ignoring them altogether in favor of casting him one last look—and Diavolo hates that even _now_ , you still have the interest of the people at heart. You may not forgive him for his methods, but you love the citizens of your nation.

Diavolo's nation.

"I will," Diavolo whispers in response. He's about to begin rambling, about to swear off another promise that will make you understand the truth of his words, the sincerity with which he speaks, but seconds later, his father is handing him a torch.

Your eyes flash with fear, the final sight Diavolo will ever see from you before you drop your gaze to your knees where they rest atop the pyre.

 _I'm sorry,_ he says, murmuring the words in his mind because he knows he doesn't deserve to apologize. He doesn't deserve to guilt you into accepting his apology. He doesn't deserve your forgiveness, and he doesn't deserve this kingdom which he has stolen from you.

But when the people see the stick in Diavolo's hand, the flame at the end burning with the telltale blackness of hellfire, they roar in support.

And Diavolo remembers why he is doing this.

_For the people._

The demon steels himself, rising to his feet. He is not doing this for himself. He is not doing this for his father. He is not doing this for you. He is doing this for the people, and for the people, he will put on a show. For the people, he will give them the final taste of vengeance that they were deprived of the moment your parents committed suicide, give them what little sick satisfaction he can.

When he drops the stick of hellfire onto the pyre, he does it for the people.

But when Diavolo steps back, it's for his own sake.

Your screams begin instantly. The hellfire spreads faster than normal fire, faster than magic fire, faster than anything in the world as it rushes to every inch of the square pyre his father set up, and your body is burning instantly.

Diavolo tries to go further back, tries to put as much distance between you and that _awful_ sound coming out of your mouth, but his father grabs his arm before he can withdraw any more.

"Watch," The demon hisses, fingernails digging into his skin. "You claimed to have loved her, so you will _watch_ as you pay the price for our kingdom. It is the least we can do."

A shudder runs up Diavolo's spine when he sees the way your body writhes desperately atop to the flames, your skin slowly beginning to melt when faced with the scorching heat of hellfire.

Abruptly, Diavolo wishes that they could have used regular flames. Or simple magic. Because neither of those would hurt as much, neither of those would bring such _horrifying_ sounds out of your mouth. But Diavolo knows that was never an option. Hellfire is the only way to truly end the life of anyone with royal blood flowing in their veins, the only way to not only burn their body but to set fire to their soul, scorching it so brilliantly that even the cycle of reincarnation is broken when the flames die out.

There will be nothing for you when this is over. The only escape is if the God in the Celestial Realm above takes pity on you, and Diavolo already knows that the ruler of heaven would rather see every demon in the Devildom burn in hellfire before he would ever take a demon into his land.

But that doesn't make the reality of the situation any less cruel.

Diavolo flinches when he realizes that your restraints are burning. That the chains which he bound to you are melting into your skin, an added burn that just exaggerates the pain.

The crowds scream with approval.

Their voices whoop with joy, all of them seeing you as an emblem of pure evil. When they watch you howl under the heat of the flames, it's your parents they imagine burning. Your parents, and your parents' parents, and every godforsaken ancestor in your family that has brought such misery to the Devildom—misery that _you_ are paying back.

"Long live the king!" The crowd begins to shout, and Diavolo can't help but think that it's sick. Sick that they're paying tribute to his father, not even giving you the respect you deserve as you die for them.

A round of cheers raise up the moment your body has been reduced to nothing more than a pile of helplessly connected bones, but even then, you are still moving. There is still that awful screaming coming out of your mouth, a sound that sounds like it's _Diavolo's_ name you are desperately trying to form the syllables to.

 _Please let her die soon,_ Diavolo prays. _Please end this suffering._

He does not know who he is praying to, but his wishes are answered because in moments, even your bones have melted into the ground, prompting another wave of hurrahs to rise up from the crowd.

But your soul remains.

The ball of spirit fights viciously against the flame, your soul young and unready to give in to the merciless destruction of hellfire.

But Diavolo can see it flickering.

The commoners' chants begin rising, now starting to clash with each other as everyone is collectively shouting for some variation of a wish for your death, every single person urging your spirit onward in its agony, only Diavolo silently begging for your soul to miraculously remain whole, though he knows it's futile.

Diavolo can no longer hear your cries of pain.

The ball of light from within the black flames is flickering, fading.

"All hail the king!" The commoners shout, pressing forward as much as they can with Resistance members holding them back. "All hail the king, all hail the prince!"

Diavolo tunes them out, though. He's solely preoccupied with your soul, urging you onward in your desperate struggle against a force so much stronger than your own fragile spirit.

"All hail the king!"

Your soul disappears for a moment, but a beat later, it's back, still fighting.

"All hail the prince!"

A burst of light strengthens your spirit momentarily, but seconds later, you're back to flickering.

"All hail the Resistance!"

You're doing your best to hold your ground, Diavolo knows. Black flames overwhelm your spirit but you're fighting back, refusing to let go.

"All hail Rebellion!"

 _Please hold on,_ Diavolo wants to shout. _Please hold on, and defeat the flames, and survive, and then maybe, just maybe, I can find your soul in your next life, and we—_

Your soul flickers.

Once.

Twice.

And then never again.

A wave of cheers rise up from the public the moment they see that the flames of hellfire are pure black, not a single remnant of _you_ to indicate that there was ever anything burning within, and Diavolo feels the breath catch in his throat, the air unwilling to go down as he waits for your soul to return. For your spirit to flicker once more, no matter how weak, to give him a final glimpse of hope.

But the flames remain black.

The masses go wild when they realize that you're gone. That not only is your life washed from this land but that your soul has been removed in the only way they know how, burned to ashes by hellfire. Their chants, cheers of hailing Diavolo and his father and Rebellion and the Resistance join into one, a seemingly never-ending cry of "All hail! All hail! All hail!"

The prince feels his father tense at the sight, instantly gripping Diavolo's hand and raising it high above his head for all to see the pose of victory between the father and son, the king and prince, the leader and defender.

"All hail! All hail!" They continue to shout, praising everything in those two lonely words of their chant: Diavolo, his father, the Resistance, Rebellion, and all of _them_ for bearing the rule of tyrants for so many millennia.

Diavolo can hardly think over their screams because in his mind, the sound of your wails of agony continues to play out in his mind, and the look on his face is _numb_ as he and his father step forward, and the crowd's chants grow impossibly louder.

The look on his father's face is filled with pride as their newly acquired kingdom screams for them, roaring in approval.

They continue to roar, their shouts getting louder and louder until each demon's voice has joined into a single chant that echoes through the land.

"All hail! All hail!

The sheer joy on their faces as they realize that they are finally free shakes Diavolo to the core, because he knows that it is an expression you always longed to see on the faces of your people. Pure happiness, relief, and elation at the realization that the oppression is over. That Rebellion has delivered its judgment, and _they_ have emerged victorious.

"All hail! All hail!" They chant in unison, their voices and hearts beating as one, the whole nation at last brought together.

Diavolo wishes you could see it.

The crowd seems to sing with happiness as they continue to whoop and cheer, every word that spills from their mouth coated with joy so distinct that the demons seem to _shine_ as they raise their fists in response to Diavolo's own.

It is a sight you would be proud of.

As the Devildom salutes its new leaders, unanimously approving of Diavolo and his father, the realm seems to shake as it breaks free from the reign of terror that had shackled it before, Diavolo swears that the sky brightens ever so slightly.

It is a sight you would have wanted to see, he knows.

And yet, it is a sight only possible because you are not here to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 9.2k
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> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.


	9. 50,000 Years After Rebellion

The swamp is peaceful when Diavolo approaches.

"Are you sure you do not want me to join you, my lord?"

Barbatos's voice is concerned, tentative as usual. Diavolo is hardly surprised at the man's skepticism. This swamp is the one place he has never permitted Barbatos to follow him through—Diavolo would be concerned, too, if he were in his butler's shoes.

"The swamp doesn't like outsiders," The prince mumbles softly, running his hands against a vine. Millennia ago, the plant might have whipped itself against the prince's face, effectively slapping him for such a bold action; but hours upon hours of one-sided efforts have smoothed over most of the patches in Diavolo's relationship with the swamp, and the vine twists contently around his finger. "I hardly wish for you to deal with what I first had to go through when I came to this place."

The look on Barbatos's face is unconvinced, doubtful as ever. Diavolo chuckles at that, knowing all too well that his butler never believes him when he talks about the swamp and its oddities, but the demon butler heeds his words regardless. 

"As you say, my lord. I will be waiting for your return."

"Actually," The prince hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the vine. "Do not wait for me tonight, Barbatos. I will return to the palace sometime tomorrow."

"Oh?" The butler offers a smile tinged with sympathy. "Is it that time of the year already, my lord?"

Diavolo nods his head, a bittersweet smile forming on his face.

"Very well," Barbatos bows. He leaves without any courtesies, without any pleasant 'good night' or 'enjoy your time' because the demonknows all too well that Diavolo only ever comes here for one reason, and any such pleasantries would be an insult.

The prince watches for a moment as his butler turns around, momentarily considering seeing his friend off—but then the vine in his hand is swaying gently, almost as if urging the demon inside the swamp.

"Yes, yes," The prince chuckles, running his thumb over the plant. "I'm coming."

The swamp comes to life the moment Diavolo steps foot inside. Animals discreetly peek their head at the demon from behind trees, birds follow him from overhead, and every tree branch arches backward to accommodate the prince's hulking frame as he shuffles down the familiar path, running his fingers along the tree branches in silent thanks.

The walk is short, as usual.

It takes Diavolo fifteen minutes to move from one end to the other, his long legs carrying him through in a fraction of the time it once took him.

The demon nearly hesitates when he realizes that he's already come out on the other end, silently wondering if he absentmindedly discovered a shortcut, but the truth is that he's simply grown.

"Oh, if only you could see me now," The prince mumbles to no one, smiling gently as he enters the cliffside that the swamp hides on this end. "You might even be proud."

Diavolo closes his eyes as the wind brushes by him, savoring the sensation.

The field he's standing in is different than it was fifty thousand years ago. The ground is colorful now, dotted mostly with purple and blue wildflowers—and the wildlife has also changed. Undead chipmunks and squirrels sprint by less often, replaced with herds of Purgatorian deer and packs of firefoxes. Diavolo is quite certain that the grass has changed color as well, the blades looking greener than ever as he walks over them.

Still, the memory of the field in Diavolo's memories is more beautiful than this. Because in his every flashback of the past, _you're_ there, brightening up the whole world around you with nothing more than a smile and a laugh.

Diavolo closes his eyes, remembering the sight. Remembering the sound.

If he truly focuses, he can almost imagine you standing next to him, right here.

"It's…" Diavolo trails off, awkward. But that's okay. He always starts off awkward whenever he comes to visit. The demon shifts, deciding to sit down on the edge of the cliff, resisting the urge to swing his legs childishly once he's settled down.

The demon clears his throat.

"It's been a while," He finally says, his voice small as the wind carries it away. "I'm sorry I haven't visited much. I know I promised you last year that I would try to make the time, but...well, Barbatos and I learned that there's currently a war going on in the Celestial Realm, so I've had my hands tied up in diplomatic issues."

Diavolo pauses, almost as if he's waiting for you to respond. You don't, of course. But that's okay. Diavolo will always give you the chance, should you choose to.

"Other than that, nothing else has really changed." Diavolo leans his head forward, staring down into the abyss. It's impossibly black, but he swears that if he squints, he can almost make out the location where he scattered your ashes here, so many millennia ago.

"Oh!" Diavolo laughs, wondering how he forgot. "I recently began working with Barbatos and the Victor to determine how we can boost the Devildom's economy. Personally, I'm not too sure about their suggestions—but then again, they've always been better at math than me."

Diavolo laughs, the sound light and reserved. It does not boom the way it used to when you were by his side, nor does it echo through the cliffside. But still, the man manages to force himself to laugh. Force himself to smile. He only comes out here once every year, so God knows he won't taint your time together with tears.

The demon breathes in deeply, taking a steadying breath.

"Ah, and the Victor managed to take back his title. Oh, I guess you don't know—he lost it during the winter season. Some newbie came and kicked his butt in front of everyone. But the Victor was pretty offended about that, so he trained nearly every day, and he took his title back in the spring season."

Diavolo chuckles, leaning his head back as he turns his gaze to the sky.

"Barbatos says I have to find myself a new right-hand man. That the Victor is too focused on cage fighting, and that he might even want to go pro." The prince sighs. "I'm not sure whether I should listen or not. Sometimes Barbatos says things just for the sake of putting the idea into my mind—I can never tell when he's serious. What do you think I should do?"

The demon closes his eyes languidly, listening to the sound of the wind.

He waits for it to take the shape of your voice, for you to whisper an answer into his ear—an answer, a response, a message—he's waiting for anything, really. Any sign that you might still be there. That you might be listening.

There's no response, of course.

"I…" Diavolo trails off, his voice thick. He doesn't know why, but every time he asks you a question, there's a part of him that genuinely waits for you to answer. It's that same part of him that dies every time you say nothing.

"I finally mastered magic. Father says he's taught me nearly everything he can, and that he's going to consider taking the Long Sleep sometime soon." Diavolo stares at his palms. "I'm nervous, honestly. I've ruled in Father's absence before, but never without him entirely. And I'm not sure if I'm ready to be King just yet."

The prince studies the lines on his hands, silently tracing the creases that have taken shape over the years.

A Purgatorian owl hoots in the distance, the sound breaking Diavolo from his thoughts.

"Sorry," The prince chuckles. "Got lost in my head for a moment, there."

He grins carelessly, the same goofy-but-charming smile he knows you always loved so much, trying to hide the way his lip trembles for half a second before he gets it under control.

"But, uh, statistics are showing growth. Crime rates are down, and morale is up." Diavolo drums his fingers against the grass. "A demoness just invented a machine to harvest lust and turn it into energy. Barbatos says that it's the beginning of some kind of Industrial Revolution, but I haven't seen any immediate effects yet. Then again, he _is_ always telling me to be more patient."

Diavolo runs a hand through his hair, shaking it out while moving onto a new topic.

"So…" The demon trails off, chuckling sheepishly. "I suppose what I'm getting at is—things are good. The people are happy now. I mean, they've been happy, but..."

Diavolo sighs.

"You remember what you last said to me? You told me to take care of the Devildom for you. And I've... I'm doing my best. And I think it's working. We even get some angels visiting every now and then, though they always hide when they see me, and I pretend not to notice them. But overall, things are going well. The Devildom is happy. Your people are happy."

Diavolo drops his eyes down to the darkness that sits beneath him, and he stares into the abyss, imagining that the darkness is a portal to your eyes.

"I guess what I'm saying is—do you—do you understand why I did what I did?" Diavolo swallows, trying to keep his tone light. "I—I know I always ask you—and I know you're probably sick of it, but it's just—" The demon forces himself to stop rambling, taking a deep, calming breath.

"I promised you that when you died, the people would be happy. And I've made good on that promise. Your death—it was never in vain. Never. I made sure of that."

The prince lets his fingers rest on the ground, his nails digging into the dirt.

"Is there any chance that you might forgive me for what I did to you?"

He waits for you to respond.

You don't, of course.

But that's alright.

You can take your time. 

Because Diavolo will always come back. And for as long as he lives, it's this cliffside he will journey out to every year, waiting and waiting for your answer, not caring that it may never come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 1.7k
> 
> Notes: This series was such a journey. It feels surreal that I've finished - there's so much I wanted to include that I didn't, and there's so much I added in that I never planned for - but I think I can say that I'm satisfied with how things turned out. College starting up right in the middle of this fic really threw me for a loop (sorry about missing updates!) but I'm soo glad I finished this, even if I was late. It's always so strange to finish a really long series like this, but I really did pour my heart and soul into this work. I hope you liked this, and that this fic was as enjoyable for you to read as it was for me to write <3
> 
> Comment & Leave Kudos
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stardust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350386) by [Elvishdork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvishdork/pseuds/Elvishdork)




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